Beyond the River
by SimpleTechnicality
Summary: A loose alliance of exiles and outcasts attempt to discover the fate of the Undead.
1. Chapter 1

**A Sorcerer, in Exodus **

The sorcerer sat in his cell, back pressed against the cold, dirty stone wall. The only sounds came from the quiet scurrying of mice and the occasional far off groan. The relative silence was broken by a sharp metallic grating noise from above the sorcerer's cell. He raised his head quickly enough to see a corpse fall from above, hitting the ground in front him with a thud. The sorcerer snapped his head up to the ceiling.

In the center of the ceiling was a large opening the sorcerer cynically thought of as a skylight, normally covered by a severely rusted metal grate. Now the grate was gone and an armored figure stared downward at him. He could bring himself to think anything of it. He just stared and the figure staring back, silhouetted against a gray sky.

Should he speak out to this mysterious individual? Request for aid? Or should he prepare to dodge an incoming arrow or firebomb? In his indecision the sorcerer ended up merely staring at the figure's faceless metal helm. The figure returned that stare for a few seconds before slowly rising and walking out of view and away from the skylight. The sorcerer dropped his gaze back to the floor. Alone again.

Momentarily the sorcerer mused on how he felt a sort of gravity, a weighty significance or purpose in that stranger's stare despite their features being utterly obscured by their helmet. That strange and illogical train of thought would have occupied the sorcerer's addled mind for much longer had something not glinted on the corpse.

Rising even slower than the departed stranger the sorcerer shuffled his way forward to the body, feeling slowly returning to his numb legs. For a split second he tried to recall how long he'd been sitting there, and was mildly disquieted at the realization that he couldn't remember.

Easing himself into a sitting position he began looking for anything that could have given off that glint of light. The body was identical to most every undead he'd seen here, dry wrinkled skin stretched across an emaciated frame. It wore nothing but a cloth shift and a pair of ancient, rusty metal bracelets. The sorcerer wondered if perhaps those bracelets were made of precious metals and, at a time before age and the elements had robbed them of their shine, and marked the owner as someone of import. On the other hand, he thought, they may have been the mark of a slave.

Shaking himself from his wandering thoughts he scanned the corpse for whatever gave off that glimmer of light. He was sure it hadn't been the bracelets, no, it had been something closer to the corpse's torso. He craned his head side to side, trying to see if he could get the right angle and catch the reflected light again. Nothing.

He'd originally hoped to keep the sex of this undead a mystery, but it seemed he'd need to thoroughly search the shift. He started at the torso, feeling around for anything out of place, any sort of shape or texture that didn't fit, while at the same time distantly wondering if perhaps his eyes weren't as reliable as he thought.

A few seconds later he lucked out, his hands coming into contact with a small piece of metal pressed against the body's side. Craning his neck the sorcerer could make out some sort of small object wedged halfway between the corpse and the ground. He slid it out from beneath the undead with little difficulty, thanks not only to the light weight of the hollowed undead but because the object was partially set into a gap between two stone tiles and so was not really being held down. Bringing it up to his face the sorcerer realized with some surprise that it was a rusty, grime covered key. And there, right near the last tooth of it was a small part relatively untouched by dirt or corrosion. That must be what reflected light, thought the sorcerer. He found it somewhat amusing that, had the key just been a little deeper in the space between the stones he'd have never seen the light reflect off of it and, even if he did inspect the body at a later date, would likely have never stumbled across it.

Stowing the odd little key in the small bag he kept at his waist he rose to his feet and started making his way back to his uncomfortable little corner, satisfaction at having solved the mystery of the reflected light lifting his spirits considerably. Part of him was a little annoyed at that actually; it just meant he'd have to suffer the journey back to down to soul numbing, resigned depression once again. He stopped in his tracks however, one hand supporting him against the wall, when a funny little idea wormed its way into his mind.

He'd thought of escape before of course, for a long while that was about all he thought of. He couldn't even begin to imagine how long he spent bashing his useless, emaciated hands against the iron bars of his cell, screaming for mercy, for justice, for relief. All the countless hours staring at those bars, drowning himself in memories of years and times long gone by. It was a natural response, he thought, once it became apparent he no longer had the future to look towards.

Pressing his free hand to the thin cloth pouch he felt the outline of the key. It would be worth trying, wouldn't it? Reaching in he pulled the key back out and held it in the palm of his hand. It was filthy, but still whole and intact.

Still bracing one hand against the wall he angled himself so that he faced the cell door. It was a very short ways away, only a few feet, but he'd been sitting for so long. And even now, he thought as he slowly hobbled his way across the cell, the feeling of the bones in his emaciated feet pressing against the stone made him grind his teeth. What he wouldn't give for thicker shoes!

Slowly and with great effort he eventually managed to reach the cell, both hands coming out to grasp the bars to help support himself. Judging from the stiffness in his knees he really had been sitting for a long time. As he lined the key up to the lock in the cell door he absentmindedly considered starting up an exercise routine he could do in his cell. Not to build muscle of course, that would be a fruitless effort. Rather he wanted to keep his joints loose and movable, scared that one day he might find his body stuck in a single position. An unlikely but disturbing prospect.

He was forced from his thoughts however when he realized the key was fitting into the lock like a glove. He tried to twist the key left to no avail. When he twisted it right though, the key turned. He stopped, the key a quarter of the way through its turn, his eyes wide. His breathing stopped, his heart thudded in his head, and all he could look at was the key, sitting there innocently in the lock. His grip tightened so much his hand shook.

Slowly the sorcerer finished turning the key. He heard something shift within the lock as the gate was released from its place on the wall, sliding forward slightly. The sorcerer pushed the cell door open all the way and stared out into the dark hallway.

For a moment all he could do was stand there at the threshold. He didn't really think, hadn't dared to think, that the key might actually work. But here he was, quite literally standing at the threshold of freedom. He could actually leave that _fucking_ cell! He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life curled up in the corner of that room after all! Granted, he was still stuck in an Undead Asylum, but now he had the freedom to roam the whole building rather than go stir crazy in a tiny room. His decomposed face hurt when he smiled, the skin stretched too tight across the bone, but damn it he just couldn't contain it. He took his first step out of the cell, quietly vowing to himself to never, ever return there, and looked on to what lay before him.

The hallway was a wreck, albeit a very well lit one. The torches were still lit, indicating that it hadn't been too long since the cleric knights last shipment of undead, revealing a long, thin passageway with multiple cells lining the left side, all broken into or out of, and a wall of iron bars to his right. The wall of bars didn't start until a few feet ahead of him, so the sorcerer couldn't see what lay on the other side, though he could make out a muffled shuffling noise emanating from that way, as if someone were dragging large stones across the ground from a considerable distance. And there at the other end was what appeared to be the threshold of another room, beyond the reach of the light from the torches and pitch dark inside. It was likely that would be his way out of the cell block. The sorcerer gave that comparatively little thought however and instead focused at the figure standing just a few feet away from said exit.

It was clearly a hollow, that much was certain. The creature was practically naked, with only a few bits of cloth here and there, and simply stood facing the wall to its right, unmoving. It reminded the sorcerer of a young student being told to sit in the corner for a time out.

The sorcerer wondered if the patchwork cloth worn by the hollow had ever been coherent clothing. He wondered how long the hollow had been in the Asylum, and how he got out of his cell. Had the decay of the Asylum released him, or had it been some sort of strange happenstance of fate as in the case of the sorcerer himself? And had he been released before or after he'd lost his mind?

The sorcerer looked down at his own garb. As a student, and later an apprentice, he'd despised the mandatory dress code at the Dragon School. The outfit, while steeped in history and tradition at the School, nonetheless looked positively ridiculous on him. After he'd turned undead however he became quite fond of the garb, curved shoes and all. It had been one of his only sources of normalcy and familiarity as he fled through the countryside, and the often undeserved respect the garment gave to the wearer within the towns and hamlets surrounding Vinheim, regardless of the skill of its wearer, was infinitely helpful while he'd been on the run. There was always work for a _true _wizard of the Dragon School, a discrimination against lay and foreign practitioners he'd once abhorred but came to depend on as he fled the cleric knights.

He wondered when his clothing would deteriorate to such a state, and whether he would keep his sanity long enough to see it. A sobering thought indeed. Bending down the sorcerer slowly, quietly, sorted through the various shards and scraps of old iron that littered the ground. Once he located a shard of metal with the right proportions and relatively little rust he took a small strip of fine cloth from his bag and wrapped it tightly around the base. Makeshift dagger in hand, he slowly crept down the hall.

Most sources, such as church canon and academic literature, claimed that the undead could not be truly killed by anything other than grevious, maiming wounds or beheading. Other sources claimed even _that _couldn't stop an undead. For the sorcerer, actually becoming undead had done little to settle the debate. He was certainly more durable, the months he'd spent lashed to the side of a carriage as he was carted to the Asylum could attest to that, but he had no way of knowing himself exactly how durable. And he had no intention to find out, either. But what were his options? Like hell was he going to stay hidden at the end of the hall forever. No, the mysterious knight had kick started his brain, and he couldn't bear the thought of stagnating back there like he had in the cell. Death would be better than that.

His back and thighs ached from crouching, but fear was a powerful motivator. He stayed pressed up against the wall to his right, opposite of where the Hollow was facing, and slowly inched his way forward. Once he reached the section of the wall made of iron bars he could clearly make out the noise he detected earlier; something big was moving on the other side of those bars. Craning his neck, he struggled to make out anything in the darkness. The torches alongside the far wall in the hallway illuminated very little however, though the sorcerer could tell from the way the sound was carrying that the room on the other side of the bars was quite large. He realized with some unease that, to anything in the gloom, the torches in the hallway were the only visible sources of light. He suddenly felt very vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, he continued down the hallway.

He eventually reached a point where he was silently crouch-walking directly behind the hollows back, all the while praying the hollow would stay turned away long enough for him to reach the end of the hallway. Clutching his makeshift knife, which brought little comfort, he pictured several dozen ways the hollow could be alerted to his presence at this point, and several ways it could kill him. The knife felt foreign and unwieldy in his hand and he knew if I came down to it his fear and inexperience would render the sad little makeshift weapon useless. He suddenly wished desperately to be in some other space, a smaller, more confined space that would be mobile and yet shield him from the gaze of the hollow should it turn to face him. Some sort of box perhaps. Yes, truly such a device would not only lead him safely out of this wretched hallway but provide him inner peace and psychological protection from his dangerous surroundings.

And the next thing he knew he was standing at the edge of the next room. He did a quick double take, shocked that his musings of the wonders of boxes had actually lasted that long. And that the hollow hadn't torn out his throat. Stepping further into the room the sorcerer finally relaxed himself and stood up straight, confident he was far enough into the un-illuminated room to be hidden from the gaze of the hollow.

He stared forward into the dark room, fear of the hollow behind him the only thing propelling him into the gloom. For a moment he simply stood there, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. He was half mad from starvation and decomposition when he'd been brought to the Asylum, and so could remember only bits and pieces of the ordeal. And of course none of those bits and pieces had anything to do with the layout of the Asylum. Under normal circumstances he would have memorized every detail of every corridor and hallway he was dragged through, but insanity and fatalism had taken its toll.

He reached out with his left hand, pressing it against the wall. Using the wall to keep himself straight he began slowly making his way through the dark, ears straining to make out any noise. He thought he heard water dripping somewhere, and then immediately pitched forward, his foot meeting air rather than stone. For a second he thought he was about to fall to his death, but then his foot met cold, icy water, soaking through his shoe and filling him with relief.

The immediate entrance to the room had been on a raised platform, and the rest was flooded. Apparently the monks in charge of maintaining the Asylum had been slacking off. He brought his foot out of the water and back onto the raised platform. He wanted to remove the damp article of clothing and let it dry out in the air, but the nagging feeling that something was going to jump out of the darkness and attack him prevented the sorcerer from diverting any of his concentration.

He was at a bit of a loss at what to do. Well no, he knew precisely what to do; he'd need to continue through the flooded room. He just really didn't want to, and so was stalling by trying to come up with any alternative. Oh, if only he had a catalyst! He could just levitate across the water, and better yet, he could create some light so he could see.

But no, his catalyst was long gone, dropped on the forest floor as cleric knights circled him. He wondered if it had been confiscated, or destroyed, or just left there to rot. He'd been given that catalyst when he'd enrolled in the Dragon School and while it was far from a masterwork he'd grown attached to it over the years and missed its reassuring weight. He felt naked, incomplete, without the means to work magic.

Bracing himself, the sorcerer stepped down into the shin high water, slowly so as to not make any splashing noises and attract the hollow still lurking behind him. Feeling his way along he eventually lined up at the right angle to see a faint gleam of pale light at the far right corner. Stepping forward a bit more he could see it was a short tunnel leading out of the room, with what looked to be a ladder at the end.

Heartened by the presence of an exit he left his place by the wall and made his way across the dark room. Stepping up to a platform at the base of the tunnel he continued forward a few feet before freezing in his tracks, his blood running cold as he realized the sound of footsteps in the water hadn't stopped.

Starting forward so quickly he almost fell on his face he desperately grabbed at the ladder, forcing his aching joints to move and practically pulling himself up to the outside. As he finally reached the top he immediately turned and looked down the hole, searching for whatever was chasing him. For five minute he stared down the hole, barely breathing. No noise. No movement. Slowly he backed away from it before getting a look at his surroundings.

This courtyard was actually one of the only places he had any recollection of from when he'd been brought in, doubtless due to the presence of a bonfire. He'd heard the rumors of the bonfire hidden away in the deepest chamber of the Dragon School, and researched them extensively, but to actually see the fabled languid flames live and up close was something he'd never forget. That, along with the stonework fit for a Wizard's Tower and the imposing presence of the warrior monks had made for a memorable scene. But time had not been kind.

The stone was chipped, worn, and covered in some sort of soot-like grime. The floor, previously kept clean by various attendants had been overtaken by what sparse grasses could grow in the frigid climate. And the fire was out. All that stood there now was a strange, rusted sword atop a pile of ashes. The custodians of the Asylum where nowhere to be seen.

Walking over to the now defunct bonfire the sorcerer reached out towards the handle of the strange blade. At least he could arm himself, he thought. But as his hand wrapped around the handle a strange feeling shot through his body, a sort of numb contentedness. He found he couldn't tense his muscles, that the hand gripping the blade was dropping lifelessly back to his side. Somewhere of it the distance he heard a fire roar. The world tilted on its side, and then everything went black.

lll

The sorcerer awoke to fragrant sunset colored smoke clouding his vision. For a brief moment he thought he was back in the Tap n' Tack, celebrating with all the other discipulumover their upcoming graduation. With an earth-shattering jolt clarity rushed back into his mind, and he remembered everything.

Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he took stock of his surroundings. It was clear to him now what happened; the undead monks and caretakers had finally gone hollow themselves, and for whatever reason no one was sent from Astora to replace them. The Asylum had been abandoned.

Rising to his feet, pleased to find the sluggish ache that had been plaguing his joints gone, he breathed in the sweet smoke and smiled at the sensation of sanity returning to him. He knew, now, that he had been going through the early stages of true hollowification. As he dipped in and out of mindless stupor the Asylum had fallen apart. And during one of those bouts of semi-sanity he'd gotten a lucky break, an armored knight, probably Astoran from what he remembered of the knight's surcoat, dropped a slain hollow holding a cell key into his cell.

Rubbing his temples he tried to recall any details regarding the layout of the Asylum. It was no use. Even with his mind restored to full functionality so much of his memory was still clouded. No matter though, that a knight was in the Asylum suggested that even in its state of disrepair there remained an intact entrance, and therefore an exit, somewhere. It was just a matter of finding it. For the meanwhile however, he thought it best he get out of the open. Though he was grateful for the knight's serendipitous rescue he knew it was probably not intentional and that the knight would most likely kill him if they ran into each other.

Directly across from him was a large, heavy looking wooden double door, proportioned as though made for small giant. Deciding such a door was unlikely to be opened by a lone emaciated hollow like him the sorcerer scanned the rest of the courtyard, looking for any alternate pathways.

To the right of the bonfire he saw a door of metal bars. Walking over to it, he craned his neck to see past the bars, spotting what appeared to be a staircase leading into an upper hallway built into the upper parts of the courtyard walls. Unfortunately, he also noted the thick metal bar preventing the door from being opened on his side. Once again he cursed his lack of a catalyst; he could simply blast the door off its hinges had he his magic.

Feeling vulnerable, with only a small rusted shard of metal to protect himself from both the hollows and the knight roaming the Asylum, the sorcerer walked back to the large door and observed. He thought that perhaps it was one of those trick doors, like in master Draylas's tower, where the humungous door was in fact disguising a much smaller door built into the corner. No such luck though, it was all solid wood. Good quality wood as well, he noted with admiration to the builders of the place, to have lasted time and the elements so well.

Leaning forward against the door he despaired at the realization that he was trapped, that he'd traded one cell for another. There was no way out of the courtyard except for the tunnel back down into the darkness of his cell, and he'd sooner face death than return there. As he put his weight against the door however, he was shocked to find that it moved. Experimentally pressing his palms against it revealed the he could indeed move the door. The insides must be all but rotted out! Thank the gods for poor caretaking!

Though it took a little effort to get both doors all the way open, due to what he assumed were some severely rusted hinges, not to mention his muscle-less frame, the undead sorcerer eventually managed to free himself from the courtyard.

Looking beyond the threshold the sorcerer observed a room even bigger than the courtyard, lined by cracked, chipped stone pillars. Between the pillars sat dozens upon dozens of urns, each about as tall as himself, and littering the floor where numerous stray bricks. The sorcerer could not for the life of him imagine what the room could have been used for.

The sorcerer raised his gaze to observe a massive hole in the center of the roof, and locked eyes with an equally massive demon.

Gurz'Grogal locked eyes with the hollow intruding upon his den. Food had been plentiful these past few years as his captors slowly went hollow one by one and ceased being able to prevent him from feasting on the prisoners. But lately the knights bringing in new shipments had begun to get sparse, and the Asylum had slowly emptied. The demon was, at this moment, absolutely famished.

Rearing up, still furious about the knight who'd escaped his wrath earlier, Gurz'Grogal flexed his tattered stunted wings before he launched himself from his perch down towards the Hollow, his hammer coming down on the creature with enough force to shake the room. A bit much just to kill a Hollow, but not having to hold back his strength pleased the demon. The magic keeping his brother imprisoned made the floor near indestructible, so he could hit as hard as he damn well pleased within that room without fear of obliterating his own territory.

Bringing his hammer back up, Gurz'Grogal brought one end up to his face to lick off the remains of the undead. A small treat, like all humans, but very tasty. He was confused then, when he couldn't find any bits of Hollow stuck to his hammer. Looking back to the floor he became even more confused by the lack of any bloody, tasty crushed pulp. He heard an urn off to his right fall over and break.

Whirling around, the demon just barely saw the little pest of a Hollow scurrying away from the fallen urn and behind a pillar. Thinking itself hid no doubt, thought the demon. This was not the behavior of a Hollow, no, this one still had its mind intact, and that infuriated Gurz'Grogal even more than the trespassing of the knight!

To him the sanity of the hollow made it human, and oh how he hated humans. He couldn't stand the thought of this weak, pathetic creature looking down on him as some sort of mindless beast, which he knew, just knew, was exactly what it was doing. Even as they cowered in fear of his might, humans would always believe in their heart of hearts in their own superiority. Such arrogance from something so weak! He would silence the thoughts of this cowering fool, he would drown its insults in terror! It death would be so satisfyingly slow.

Roaring as loud as he could he swiped his hammer horizontally across the pillar, just above where he estimated the human would be. The magic imprisoning his sibling did not extend to the pillars, and sure enough just as it collapsed the little rat went scurrying away from where he hid, desperately looking for cover or a way out. Were he capable of facial expressions Gurz'Grogal would've grinned. He was going to have some fun with this one, if only to make up for his failure to catch the knight earlier.

Ignoring his prey for now, Gurz'Grogal lifted a relatively intact section of the destroyed pillar with his free hand and made his way towards the door the hollow came in through. Pushing the small door shut with the end of his hammer he then sat the pillar down in front of it, sealing the hollow in with him.

Turning back around he watched with some amusement as the hollow struggled to push open the door at the opposite end of the room. Though the door wasn't heavy, it was locked, and the only key was tied to a rope Gurz'Grogal wore around his neck.

The demon took one loud, exaggerated step forward and watched with delight as the human jumped in shock. The human spun around, back pressed against the door and shaking with fear, looking desperately all around the room. Gurz'Grogal took another step and the human jumped as though he had been struck, his eyes now fixed solely on the approaching demon.

Suddenly the human's gaze shifted to the right, and he bolted in that direction. This pleased Gurz'Grogal, a chase would be more fun than just crushing him as he stood paralyzed with fear. When the demon saw where the human was headed however he roared with fury and charged forward as fast as he could. The gate had been opened somehow! His quarry had an exit! But no, he swore on the name of his brothers he would not let this bastard creature escape, not another one, not again. They had to suffer, and they would suffer, just as his brother suffered trapped within this accursed Asylum!

The demon was like something out of a nightmare. Sneering face, long tangled horns, massively corpulent and wielding a hammer the size of a tree; the sorcerer felt like he was about to wet himself, backed up against the locked door with the sneering beast drawing nearer. An eternity in the Asylum wasn't something he looked forward to, but it would be better than dying here, like this. Were he not terrified beyond all imagination he would have found that amusing, an Undead afraid to die.

His eyes darted around the room again. Though he'd given up finding a way out, he found he just couldn't hold the demons stare. He felt as though his knees were about to give out. Right as he was about to collapse and surrender to death however he spied motion on the wall to his right. There, behind some urns, was a gate blocking a side path out of the room. And it was lifting up!

Throwing himself from his place against the door he made a mad dash for the exit, his trembling legs threatening to topple him. He felt the ground quake as the demon shot after him, letting out a roar that almost knocked him flat on his face. He was just a few feet away from the urns blocking the way out when he heard the demon stop and draw in breath; it was going to crush him!

In desperation he launched himself forward as hard as he could. He barreled through the fragile urns just as a deafening blow sounded out from behind him, the ground shaking beneath his feet. The force of it knocked him forward, air hitting him the back hard enough to throw him off his feet and onto the ground. Gasping, ears ringing, he landed on his hands and knees just inside the small hallway leading out of the demon's room. Another loud boom, this time making the walls of the hallway rattle and small bits of stone fall from the roof, along with another blood curdling roar got him to crawl on hands and knees further down the hallway.

He couldn't see anything ahead of him, nor hear anything other than the roars of the demon, but he had to get further down the hallway. He had to get away from that monster. He kept on crawling until one of his hands met empty air instead of the ground and he went hurdling into the darkness.

He opened his mouth to scream, but that was stopped in its tracks as his jaw made contact with the edge of a stair. Panicking the sorcerer tried to right himself, but the stairs were slick with water and he'd had too much momentum when he'd hit the top step. He plummeted down the staircase, the pain in his jaw the only thing keeping him from screaming out as the edges of the stairs tore into his skeletal body.

A blinding, explosive pain wracked his right shoulder as he finally came to a stop at the base of the staircase. He thought he was moaning in pain, but couldn't be sure. His mouth was definitely moving, but that along with other large sections of his body had gone numb. His shoulder however was filled with a deep burning throb. Probably dislocated. Great.

He struggled to bring his uninjured arm up under him so as to lift himself up, but a sharp pain in his chest stopped that plan in its tracks. And broken ribs too now, apparently. Slowly easing his arm back down to the ground he flexed his fingers, glad to at least have some dexterity left somewhere. It didn't look like he'd be moving anything else for a while.

He felt his fingers moving through something. He couldn't be sure, his gloves may be threadbare and tattered but they covered enough, but it felt like some sort of tightly packed, fine powdery material. Ash, maybe?

With what felt like a herculean effort, the sorcerer raised his head. There, not two feet away sat a rusted, spiraling sword atop a pile of ashes. He reached out as far as he could, fingers grasping at the blade, but he couldn't quite reach it. Digging his fingers onto the grooves of the stone floor and pushing against the ground with his knee the sorcerer pushed himself forward a few inches, just enough for his fingers to brush the edge the blade before he blacked out from the pain.

lll

The sorcerer awoke feeling refreshed. His were wounds healed, broken bones knitted back and cuts closed, and that fragrant orange smoke was blurring his vision and filling his head with a pleasant numbness. He was warm. He was content. He rolled over to his side, inadvertently putting himself too far from the bonfire. Reality came rushing back.

He gasped as cold, dusty air filled his lungs. Pushing himself up to relieve the stress of his bones resting on the cold stone floor the sorcerer looked around, blinking, confused, trying to get his bearings straight. He remembered the demon, and fear, and falling and pain. That's right, he mangled himself trying to get away from the demon, falling down a flight of stairs.

The sorcerer shook his head and rubbed at his temples, trying in vain to ease the sudden ache in his skull while pointedly not looking over at the inviting, languid flame of the bonfire. It reminded him far too much of a drug now, the way it had not only eased his pains but numbed his thoughts. His very nature rejected such a thing. Or at least, it used to. Perhaps when there were more than a few feet of stone separating him from a bloodthirsty demon he'd experiment more with the effects of these bonfires.

It was odd, thought the sorcerer, that the demon hadn't simply smashed his way into the room, but like hell was he going to stay and mull over it. Making his way across the room, careful not to slip on the stone floor, which he assumed was kept moist by melting snow dripping in from somewhere, the sorcerer managed to reach an opening on the opposite side of the room.

He walked out into what was once a cell lined hallway. The roof was long gone now however, the cells busted open or caved in, and the stone floor was coated with large patches of pale green moss punctuated by small streams of water, melted snow most likely, rolling down the slight incline of the hall. The sorcerer had to squint his eyes as he stepped out under the open sky, despite the grey clouds obscuring the sun. Movement caught his attention.

Something shifted at the end of the hall way. Pressing his hand to his brow, the sorcerer was able to open his eyes fully just in time to see a lone hollow at the opposite end of the hall release an arrow in his direction.

The sorcerer blindly threw himself into an open cell on his left, dodging the arrow by only a few seconds. He landed hard on his side, sliding on the slick stone floor. Pushing himself up the sorcerer hurriedly crawled on hands and knees to peer around the corner of the cell door.

At the far end stood an Undead. His armor may very well have been that of the warrior-monks who guarded the asylum, but time and the elements had eroded it to rags and errant strips of rusted iron. The bow it held however was clearly still functional, and the creature had plenty of arrows jutting out of the quiver on its back. Already it was drawing another arrow and slowly shambling down the hallway, inching towards the sorcerers cover.

He was trapped. At one end was the armed hollow, and the other a demon. His only option was to wait outside the door and attempt to jump the hollow as it entered the threshold of the cell. He had been rejuvenated by the bonfire after all, while this hollow had stood beneath the open sky for gods know how long, wasting away. But then, the sorcerer had no clue how to fight. Not without his staff, his sorceries. What choice did he have though?

Shaking, he pressed himself up against the wall next to the entrance of the cell, listening to the shuffling of the hollows feet as it struggled to make it way down the hall. It was then that he noticed the corpse lying on the ground by his feet, half submerged in the water. The dried out body was missing its head and an arm, but on the opposite arm was strapped a small, rounded leather shield.

Hesitantly the sorcerer bent down and pulled the shield from the corpses arm, inspecting it. The leather was cracked and soaked, the wooden back and handle full of rot, and the metal half ball in its center covered in rust. But it was something at least. Gripping it with both hand the sorcerer brought it up to his chest and flattened himself back against the wall, thinking he could use the ruin of a shield as some sort of bludgeon. He vaguely recalled a knight doing something similar to someone, somewhere…

Strange. He felt that the knight striking the man was supposed to be a memory of great import to him, something he was supposed to remember. He felt strangely guilty about the fog that had settled over that portion of his mind.

He was shaken from his reverie by the hollow turning the corner. He brought the rim of the shield to the side of the hollows jaw with all the strength he could muster. Which, as it turns out, was not much. The hollow released its bow and arrow and tore the shield from the sorcerers arm, flinging across the room before giving a loud guttural moan and charging.

The terrified sorcerer raised his hand, desperate to keep the hollows teeth away from him. The hollow barreled into him, slamming him against the wall. Dry, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. His vision was beginning to fade. Desperately he clawed against the hollows hands and face to no avail.

The hollow stepped on a patch of moss beneath the water, slipped, and cracked its head open against the stone. Arrows fell from their quiver, spilling into the water behind it. The sorcerer, gasping for breath and clutching at his throat, simply stood in shock before coming to his senses and running up to the downed hollow. The sorcerer grabbed up an arrow from beneath the water, still in comparatively good shape and with a wicked iron tip, just as the hollow was beginning to rise. Grimacing, he plunged the arrow into the hollows eye.

The hollow screamed, black blood spurting from its pierced eye. The sorcerer jumped back, startled, and fought with himself over whether he should make a break for it or stay to make sure the hollow died. Before he could decide the hollow suddenly grew silent and fell slack, it's skin rapidly cracking and turning a light, soft grey. Curious, the sorcerer reached out to examine the corpse only to have it crumble at his slightest touch. Ash, he realized. The body had turned to ash. Rising, the sorcerer stumbled out of the flooded cell and made his way down the hallway.

lll

He was led to a gated terrace, wrapped around the perimeter of the bonfire courtyard. To either side were staircases, leading up to even higher levels of the Asylum. Part of the sorcerer wanted to stay right where he was, terrified of what danger may befall him should he continue on. But his rational side knew it was only a matter of time before another hollow wandered in on him, or the demon eventually tracked him down. He need to explore further, needed to find someplace truly safe. Or, preferably, the exit.

Steeling himself the sorcerer made his way to the staircase, halting momentarily to observe the flickering of the bonfire down in the courtyard. He was leaning against the bars, standing right next to the staircase, absentmindedly wondering what properties made the flame move so with such languor when the ground beneath him began to shake and a fierce rumbling started to reverberate from atop the stairs. The sorcerer turned to see a truly massive ball of iron come barreling down the steps.

He was in absolutely no danger of being hit. All the same, the sorcerer jumped back in fright, losing his footing and falling on his backside. The iron ball slammed through the wall opposite the stairs, ancient brick and decaying mortar flying apart. He heard another loud bang as another wall, sturdier apparently, deflected the ball, which he could hear skidding across the ground before coming to a rest.

Nervously, the sorcerer peered around the corner and up the stairs. Searching for someone or something that could have pushed the massive sphere down at him, the sorcerer paid little attention to the room said sphere had just opened up.

Until the man inside the room began to moan.

lll

Oscar thought it would be the last time he closed his eyes as a man. The fight with the demon had left him battered and broken, unable to even reach the estus flask at his hip. The curse fed off the despair following his defeat, running rampant throughout his body. He didn't even want to imagine what he must look like now. There was so much more room in his armor than he remembered there being.

So as he laid upon the rubble, light from the hole in the roof shining down on him, he closed his eyes in defeat. When next he awoke Oscar, knight of Astora would surely be gone, a mad hollow taken his place. He was proven wrong when his eyes shot open at the sound of a huge metal ball crashing through the wall to his right.

The shock made him flinch, and by the gods did it hurt. His ribs pushed in direction they weren't meant to push and his shoulder, long since dislocated, shifted in his armor. He wanted to scream, but all he could manage was a low, pained moan.

Judging by the sharp gasp and shuffling footsteps from the other side of the wall, something heard him.

A hollow peeked it's head around the corner at him. Through the slits in his helmet he could make the faded uniform of the Vinheim Dragon School. Odd, he thought, that a hollowed Vinheim sorcerer would've been sent here of all places. It was common knowledge the Lords of the Dragon School liked to keep such 'valuable subjects' to themselves.

But wait, something was wrong. That clothing. He'd seen a Vinheim sorcerer here hadn't he? When he'd been fighting the hollow on the roof, that's right. The damned creature had fallen down a hole and when Oscar peeked in to ensure his blessed sword had done its job a hollowed sorcerer had been sitting there in the room. Just staring back at him.

But how had it gotten all the way over here? And more importantly why was it just standing there gaping like a fool? A hollow should have attacked him by now.

Unless…Could it be?

With some great effort Oscar drew in breath, wincing as pain wracked his body, and spoke to the sorcerer.

"You're no hollow, are you?"

The hollow jumped when he spoke. By the gods, the poor thing looked like a startled rabbit. It, or he rather, looked like he was torn between running for his life and throwing himself to the ground and crying. Oscar could guess why. Even in great Astora undead hunts had become an increasingly popular activity among landed knights. The stories of those hunts had spread far and wide and were quite…gruesome.

"Wait, please don't run. We are both undead here. Please, come closer, I have pressing need to speak with you."

The sorcerer was still tense, muscles tightened like a spring, ready to sprint away at the first sign of trouble. Thankfully though he stepped forward.

"Is that cloak your own? Are you truly a sorcerer of the School?"

The Undead nodded. " Thank the gods then. I was no match for the demon, but perhaps magic can do what steel could. I was sent here, on an Undead Mission at the behest of the royal family. My quest was to ring the fabled Bell of Awakening, and in doing so discover the true fate of the Undead who plague the world. I have failed, and will soon go hollow. Please, you may be my last hope, the world's last hope. I beg of you, carry on in my stead."

The undead sorcerer opened his mouth to speak. Instead he broke into a coughing fit, clutching at his throat. It must have been a long time since he'd spoken. Slowly however he calmed down and, in a voice like sandpaper on tree bark, said two words.

"No staff."

Oscar tried to point, but even that much movement was beyond him. "Up there stairs there, behind you. It will lead to a balcony with an undead hanging off the side to your left. He has a catalyst…as well as one of my daggers sticking out of his skull."

The sorcerer visibly brightened at the mention of a catalyst. That was good, it meant he still had a little spirit left in him. "Take them both if you like. I have an estus flask and another dagger on my belt here, you will need them."

The sorcerer came knelt next to him and pulled both items from the knight, gripping the dagger awkwardly while gazing in awe at the pale green flask and what little sunset colored liquid remained. Even in those dead eyes, Oscar could see a thousand questions waiting to be asked. Typical sorcerer. But there was no time.

"The key in my pouch, take that as well. Good, I know you must have many questions but there is simply no time. That key will open the door to the balcony. Lock the door behind you. It is only a matter of time before I succumb to the curse. You must regain your power before then."

The undead sorcerer had to clear his throat and swallow several times before he could speak. "Your name… what is your name?"

His vision was beginning to tunnel. "I am Oscar, knight of Astora."

"I will accept you quest, Oscar of Astora."

Oscar smiled behind his helm, the burden of his failure lifted by the sorcerers agreement to carry on the torch. As the world began to grow dark he forced himself to speak one last time to this strange undead. He wished he could have learned his name.

"Thank you… and farewell."

lll

The sorcerer, of course, had no intention of accepting any quests. He did however feel that the knight, for his assistance, should at least die with a little hope inn his heart, and so lied through his teeth until he was sure the knight had drifted off into what would likely be his last bout of unconsciousness before true hollowification.

The truth was that he planned on retrieving this catalyst, if was truly there, and then getting the hell away from this accursed asylum. Arguably the only upside to his becoming undead was that he could now travel with impunity. No need to worry about food or weather or inconvenient bodily functions. And once he had his magic in hand he would be safe from anything that wished him harm. But first he needed to get away from the knight. He would be slaughtered in an instant were the knight to rise while he was still near.

Clutching the dagger so hard his fingers hurt, he slowly made his way up the stairs. There, standing right before the door which would take him out to the balcony stood a hollow. It was probably a sorry sight to anyone else, naked, emaciated and unarmed. But the sorcerer's legs were shaking. Had he a functioning digestive system he'd be, once again, fighting the urge to wet himself.

He'd never used a weapon against another living being. He'd used magic for such a purpose once before, and there was that one fencing lesson when he was still a disciple, but neither of those events counted to him. This would be a first.

The hollow saw him and rushed. Spreading his feet and blading his body, the sorcerer thrust forward with the dagger. The dagger sunk to the hilt in the hollows stomach. It didn't seem to notice. Teeth clenched down on his shoulder with a sickening crunch. The sorcerer screamed. Hands clamped down on his face and arm, so hard he feared they'd snap bone. In desperation the sorcerer shoved forward with what strength he had. The hollow, feather light, was forced back a few steps before receiving a punch in the face. Already off balance, the hollow fell flat on its back.

The sorcerer, wild eyed from fear and pain, pounced down on the hollow, pinning it, and with a shrill yell raised the dagger above his head and plunged it into the hollow's eye. That did the trick.

For a long time, the only information anyone had on estus flasks was that found within the forbidden Dark Tales. The massive collection of profane writings were, officially, to burnt or handed over to the nearest church authority for burning. The practice fell out of fashion as the years went by and more and more copies seemed to appear to the point when confiscating works from the Tales had become more of a formality than anything else.

It was common knowledge that deep within the bowels of the Vinheim Dragon School rested the most complete version of the work, though most considered it a curiosity among curiosities and even the few with the authority to view the Dark Tales never bothered to give it any consideration. Strange, but harmless fiction it was called. Then estus flasks began to pour into the city.

The curse of the Undead began to appear in the hamlets and countrysides of the great cities, and with the Undead appeared the innocuous pale green flasks. Undead hunts once again became a fashionable pastime among landed knights, who gave reports that Undead could drink a strange liquid found within some of the flasks to heal any injury. Intrepid business men sold innumerable flasks to students and teachers alike, and the entire School was overtaken with a craze for unlocking the mysteries of the emerald flasks. Alas, none of the recovered flasks still contained the fabled sunset ichor that could heal injury, though many a sellsword was sent at the behest of wealthy lords to find just such a prize.

The sorcerer, upon his graduation from the school and his acceptance of an apprenticeship under Master Draylas, contributed a section of his first book to the references to the flasks found within the Dark Tales, and on the possibility that so much of the material that had long been considered fanciful fiction ought to be given a second look. Personally, he considered it all a load of horseshit but, as his Master predicted, the book sold quite well, enough to fund his much more productive studies into the properties of cat oil when applied to certain inert herbs. In the Asylum however he discovered, to his great surprise, that it was not a load of horseshit at all.

The sorcerer had been sitting up against the wall a few feet away from the slain hollow and in incredible agony from his wounds. Terrified that, were he to take the time to return to the bonfire to heal, the knight would fully hollow and hunt him down he decided to find out once and for all the validity of those ridiculous rumors which, apparently, the knight had put stock in. The knight, it turned out, had been far wiser than himself.

It was strikingly comparable to the effects he felt when near a bonfire. A quick flash of warmth and contentment and then poof, he felt all better. Better than better, actually, he go as far to say he felt more substantial. More whole. This would warrant a great deal of study if ever again he found himself in a laboratory. But, for the time being, he supposed he had other priorities.

Bouncing up from his place by the wall, feeling good as new, he fished the key the knight had given him from his bag and all but threw open the door. Sure enough it opened up into a balcony overlooking a graveyard and the edge of the mountain. And there, hanging precariously from the side of the ledge, was a slain hollow with one dagger sticking out from the back of its skull and one wooden staff secured tightly to it back.

The sorcerer almost ran towards the corpse before catching himself. Quickly he closed the door shut behind him and locked it back up, pocketing the key. He could in all fairness probably take a lone knight with his sorcery, but there was no point in risking it. That taken care of, he all but sprinted to the corpse before carefully undoing the straps on the catalyst.

He could tell just by looking that this was not the tool of some hedge-wizard. No, this beauty was of Vinheim make, smoothly carved and radiating magic. It's power was fairly mild, he could feel that in his skin even as he undid the straps, meaning it hadn't been used often, but it was of no consequence. Even an aged and under-utilized Vinheim catalyst was far stronger than anything made from outside sources. And it would only get stronger with use.

Almost reverently he took the catalyst in his left hand and raised to the sky in the casting stance taught by the School. The bonfire and Estus had given him contentment, but this? This was euphoria. For the first time in ages, the sorcerer felt complete. A groan emanated from somewhere behind him.

Whirling around he caught sight of three hollows, two standing in the middle of the balcony and a third, armed with a bow and arrow, off on the opposite end. The sorcerer ducked, an arrow flying over his head and off the side of the mountain.

Dropping the shield the sorcerer raised his catalyst and assumed the stance. The telltale sting of magic began crawling through his arm, slower than he'd like but faster than the hollows were moving. The magic pooled in the palm of his hand before jumping into the conductive catalyst, manifesting as a pale blue light emanating from where he gripped the catalyst. The light traveled up the catalyst until it reached the very top. The sorcerer grinned as the condensed magic was released.

The Soul Arrow tore through the two advancing hollows, beheading one and tearing a significant chunk out the one behind it. A second soul arrow finished it off, followed by a third to take care of the archer. A familiar dull ache began to settle in his arm; the air began to fill with the smell of exposed magic, a sharp acidic odor. It reminded him of home.

He knew the smart thing to do would be to drop down into the graveyard, using magic to cushion his fall of course, and the begin searching for a way down the mountain. Hell, worst case scenario he could just levitate his way down, pathway or no. It would be painful, and extremely taxing, but he was eager to see the last of the Asylum. But there was a doorway behind him.

Judging from the barely audible heavy breathing, and what little of the layout he'd managed to figure during the last few hours, the doorway would open into an upper level of the room the demon resided in. The sorcerer knew he ought to simply leave. Regaining his magic made him confident however. The demon had terrorized him when he'd been at his weakest, and now that he was strong he wanted revenge. It was petty and prideful, he knew, but that knowledge didn't lessen his desire one bit.

His last thoughts before entering the doorway and looking down upon the hulking beast were of the knight. The knight had saved him. And the demon killed the knight.

Gurz'Grogal smelled his prey the moment it entered the room. He would waste no time terrorizing the cretin, not after that last mess. He was going to kill this little fucker. Whirling around to face the small terrace his prey stood upon the demon squatted down and flexed what remained of his wings. But before he could launch himself up and crush the abomination however, he saw it. The light.

A pale blue light radiated from something in the hollows hand. Gurz'Grogal was bombarded with memories of the ancient past, of a battle long since done. He could smell the stink of rotting and burning flesh, feel the heat of the lava pouring from the wounds of the twisted one, washing harmlessly over his brothers as it incinerated their enemies. He heard the screams of his mother as she urged him on, all of them, to kill and maim and destroy. And he remembered the light.

Foul creatures in six eyed helms, the man-puppets of a great pale monster. Their appearance brought ruin to innumerable demons, their foul magic imbuing the knights of the sun lord with strength and speed far beyond anything mere humans should possess. And then they joined the fray themselves, spewing the pale light of death onto hordes of his brothers. He charged one that strayed too close, felt the stare of the cold beast hiding behind the six eyes, saw the blue light. And then there was darkness. Darkness and pain.

With great effort he pulled himself from the memory of the ancient battle. It was too late. The light rushed forward towards him, and once again there was pain and darkness as the magic tore through his eyes. Roaring and screaming he rushed forward and desperately beat against the wall in front of him with his hammer. If he could just break the wall then surely the fall would kill the hollow. He could still save himself.

In his pain and terror Gurz'Grogal had forgotten the enchantment placed on the walls. The walls imprisoning his brother, and any walls connecting, where utterly indestructible. He remembered too late. More pained blossomed all over his exposed back and shoulders. And then the pain was gone, and only darkness remained.

The sorcerer knew that the god-like euphoria he felt was an illusion. It was the almost orgasmic feeling of releasing magic that had remained pent up within the body for years and years, a common affliction many young discipulum experienced when they finally qualified to be given their first catalyst. He knew that, in a few hours, he would look back in shame and embarrassment how he reveled in it. But revel he did, grinning like an idiot as he cast Fall Control and slowly began floating down into the graveyard.

In retrospect he would realize that slaughtering a demon with such ease did him little favor as far as self-control was concerned. It was only through a great force a will and his years of experience as a senior apprentice that he resisted the urge to jump off the edge then and there and Fall Control his way to the base of the mountain. That would be stupid and dangerous. He needed to meditate and regenerate the magic he'd expended fighting the demon.

The sorcerer decided the raised section of the far end of the graveyard, which as far as he could tell was the natural peak of the mountain, looked like a prime spot. Sitting down and crossing his legs the sorcerer slowly worked himself into a trance that would speed the recovery of his magic. It would take some time, but he wanted to be at full strength when he began his descent. He anticipated it being quite the ordeal.

Nonetheless, on the whole his thoughts were quite optimistic. He had his magic back, and soon he would be making his escape. It would be a long journey, but he could now return to the South, to the lands he called home.

Hundreds of feet below him, in a nest carved into the side of the mountain itself, the Great Crow awoke.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Sorcerer, Interlude at Firelink**

The flying part wasn't so bad. The bird's talons, though far from comfortable, were softer than stone and much warmer, and he had an excellent view of the desolate, snowy, mountainous landscape. If he hadn't been curled up in a cramp inducing ball, and if he had any idea where the hell this infernal avian was taking him, things wouldn't be so bad.

His first instinct had been to blast the feathery fiend's feet off with a few Soul Arrows. Instinct though, as the sorcerer was well aware, tended to be very, very stupid. They were flying several hundred feet above the ground, at least. Even an Undead couldn't survive a fall like that.

So he remained, first terrified, then wary, then content, then bored. His mind would, every hour or so, flash to the image of the crow bringing him home to several baby birds that'd proceed to tear up and devour him. That was ridiculous though; he'd clearly seen a nest, vacant he might add, set into a rather large crevice in the mountain under the Undead Asylum as they'd flown off. And besides, a bird this size would require a truly massive quantity of food just to maintain itself, not to mention chicks. Such quantities were unlikely to be found in the frozen mountains of the North.

The fact was he had no idea what the bird was planning to do with him. Assuming it had the cognitive faculties to plan. This could just be some stupid whim, for all he knew. The stupid bird might not even remember it had picked him up.

Several hours ruminating on possibilities turned up nothing conclusive, and the sheer amount of time he'd spent in the birds grasp had worn away a great deal of his fear. It was dangerous he knew, getting accustomed to this strange, horrifying, and potential fatal turn of events, but he couldn't help himself. And slowly exhaustion, both mental and physical, took their toll, and he drifted off to sleep.

lll

He awoke falling. He barely had time to register what was happening before the ground rushed up to greet him. There was pain, for a moment, and fear, and then black oblivion.

lll

He could hear a fire blazing nearby. He opened his eyes to air filled with orange smoke. He felt warm and rested.

Rising from the soft, comfortable grass he looked around, stretched, and attempted to get his bearings. Wherever the crow was taking him, evidently they had arrived. Though, due to the smoke, he found he couldn't see a thing. The sorcerer carefully walked a few feet away from the bonfire; the warmth and smoke began to dissipate.

It had been a structure, at one point. The bonfire sat in an indentation at the edge of a cliff, ringed with the ruins of stairs and a couple of tall, partially collapsed buildings. Beyond them sat an even taller structure, a ruined tower of stone built into the side of the mountain reaching up to another building far above. And beyond that was more of the mountain, stretching up beyond the clouds.

The view behind him was even more astonishing. It was, simply put, the single most incredible, breathtaking, beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his entire life; a city, cut into sections by gently curving walls, descending below him all the way to the horizon.

No city in the world was this massive. Even the ancient capitals of Astora and Thorolund couldn't match the vast urban sprawl laid out before him. Wherever he was, it was completely unknown in the civilized world, a true lost city, like in the old stories of Lordran or Izalith.

That a people existed beyond the frozen wasteland of the Northern Mountains was one thing, but that they had built something this incredible was phenomenal! The sorcerer could only imagine the time it must have taken to expand to this degree. He needed to get down there. Just because his surrounding were dilapidated and abandoned didn't mean the entirety of the city was too. For heaven's sake, you could fit the entire population of Vinheim down there and barely take up any room at all! And even if it was empty he wanted to get a closer look at the architecture, the materials they used to build, looked for important sites like libraries or places of worship or sites of civic gathering.

The sorcerer had stumbled onto the most significant find of the age! And he had it all to himself.

The sorcerer took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He was, perhaps, getting a bit too excited. He needed to get a handle on his immediate surroundings first. Clearly he was not the first person to visit this bonfire.

A makeshift camp had been set up, though how old the sorcerer couldn't say. Pressed up against a dilapidated wall stood a rough but solid tent thrown up over a bed of warm, thick blankets and furs. Several bags and pouches sat next to it, each filled with vials, some containing all manner of colorful liquids, most empty, and a wide variety of herbs medicinal and otherwise. Between the tent and a staircase leading down the back of the small plate at the very edge stood a large tree, roots displacing what little of the arched stone structure remained. Against the tree leaned makeshift racks, bags, boxes, and various other containers and holders, all filled with a wide variety of weapons.

The sorcerer approached to examine a sword. The metal was scratched and worn, but solid, the edge kept plenty sharp. The sorcerer bent to grasp the handle and was shocked at how light it was. He distinctly remembered trying to lift a sword during a fencing course he'd taken; even with both hands he'd barely been able to lift it over his head. This blade was even larger, thicker too, yet it didn't feel any heavier that his catalyst. Slowly he ran his palm over the side of the metal; some sort of alloy perhaps? It looked like regular steel to him, but he would have no way to know for sure without a lab and a forge.

Even more interesting was the pommel. It was wrought in the shape of a bird, with the ends of the guards shaped to look like talons. A distinctly Astoran design. Taking a closer look, the sorcerer realized most all the weapons had some telltale mark or feature signifying its origin. In short, none of these weapons were native to this land. It seems he was not the first to discover this lost city after all.

Lll

The sorcerer sat by the fire, sword on one side and catalyst in the other. He felt good. Too good.

He'd attributed the orgasmic rush he'd felt back at the Asylum to the release of pent up magic, but if that was so the effects should have faded ages ago. But still, hours, if not a day, later he still felt an electric buzz in the back of his head.

It was more than just the buzz though. His breath felt fuller, his limbs stronger, and his vision sharper. His mind felt clearer and focused. He felt, for all intents and purposes, good. Great, even. Better, perhaps, than he's ever felt in his entire life. And that worried him.

Something was going on here. It was unlikely to have anything to do with magic, though the brief high from using all that pent up magic probably helped mask the more invasive effects of whatever it was he was experiencing. Perhaps it had something to do with the bonfires? Or, perhaps something in his brain was rotting off and it was making him delusional.

He tried to think back, to pinpoint exactly when the effects first began. Clearly the onset was after his recovery of the catalyst, so either during or immediately following his initial magic-high. Only two things of note occurred during that time, both highly unusual, fantastical, and fraught with unknown factors.

First, he'd killed a demon. Throughout all his studies of ancient history he's encountered only one tale of men battling a demon, the infamous assault on Astora by the Evil Eye. Even then then, that had been a creature of an entirely different caliber than the middling beast he'd conquered, and had been sealed by enchanters, not outright killed. So, to his knowledge, he was the first mortal to kill a demon, and there could very well be a range of unknown consequences to the act.

And then there was the crow. Certainly a comparatively mundane experience, but a strange and unexplainable one no less. Clearly the beast was affected in some form or another by magic, nothing in nature could create and support such a creature after all. Perhaps some manner of shenanigan had occurred during that ordeal, some sort of magical bleed-off effect…or something?

He was grasping at straws here and he knew it. If only he had the proper equipment to take blood and tissue samples, he could at least tell if the flow of magic within his body had changed, whether what ailed him was physical or sorcerous. That the effects seemed totally positive was irrelevant. The sorcerer was completely in the dark here and it terrified him.

Footsteps ahead pulled him from his musings.

Two hollowed Undead, dry skin stretched taunt of thin frames armed in shattered and rusting armor wandered towards the camp from the base of what appeared to be some sort of aqueduct stretching out of the side of the mountain. They were only just reaching the ruins ahead of the camp and seemed oblivious to his presence.

The sorcerer stood, scooped up his catalyst, and took aim. The distance was probably a little too much, he knew, but it was worth a shot. He had no desire to get close to those things at all. The Undead in the Asylum had looked about as weak and harmless as these before it sunk its teeth into his shoulder.

His first bolt fell short, as predicted. It got their attention though, sending them shambling rapidly towards him. A second bolt tore the leg off the one in front. It went down, tripping up the one behind it. A rain of Soul Arrows fell upon both, the sorcerer firing indiscriminately at this point, shredding what remained of their bodies until flesh turned to ash and was blown away by the force of the impacting Soul Arrows.

A second later the sorcerer had to struggle to keep on his feet as euphoria filled his very being.

Releasing magic after so long hadn't been covering up anything at all. Rather, that lesser pleasure had been obscured by this elation, this incredible feeling of invincibility washing over him as he slew those hapless hollows.

He needed more.

The sorcerers' thoughts became muddled as he made his way towards the base of the Aqueduct. A poorly armored Undead near the end of the path groaned as he drew near, charging. A second, standing at the top of a divergent path leading upwards towards the entrance to the duct picked out a firebomb from the tattered remains of a satchel and threw it. It traveled a few feet before being blown apart by a Soul Arrow, a second following close behind taking off the offenders head.

The armored Undead was drawing near. The intoxicated sorcerer, mildly insulted by the mere presence of so low a creature, didn't even bother raising his catalyst, instead bringing the salvaged sword up and plunging it straight through the hollows skull. Black blood and gore went flying as the creature went limp. He felt stronger now, and faster. He felt more than capable of wielding the sword, even though he'd never so much as held one properly before.

It was a mundane weapon though, below one such as him. He tilted both the blade and the slain hollow hanging from to the right, letting both drop of the edge of the mountain and into the ruins below. The hollow turned into ashes as it fell, scattering to the winds. The sword dropped out of sight.

Hungry for more the sorcerer continued up the path, reaching the base of a staircase that led to a door in the side of the aqueduct. Another hollow, this one wielding an axe, rushed out from behind the stairs and swung at him. It moved so slowly, he realized. Too slow to ever hit him. He sidestepped the blow easily. It was so light too he thought, grabbing hold of the hollow by the neck and throwing it over near the edge. A Soul Arrow tore a hole through its gut and sent it flying over the side of the mountain and off into the ruins far below.

A final hollow came barreling down the stairs. With a mad yell the sorcerer physically punched the hollow, smiling in satisfaction as it fell dazed to the ground. A Soul Arrow obliterated its head, its death sending shocks of pleasure and confidence through the sorcerer's system. He turned about, looking for more hollows. None were found. His eyes drifted towards the gate leading into the aqueduct. He needed to go farther into the ruins.

He needed more.

Lll

The sorcerer cut a bloody swath through the Burg. A myriad of side paths, alleys, and rooftop walkways provided dozens of Undead ripe for slaughter. But they were too weak. He was getting severely diminished returns with each kill.

He just cut through a group of five, one he'd been chasing and four others who'd climbed up from over the edge of the railings when he'd drawn near. They'd been practically skeletons though, nothing but dried red skin stretched taunt over bone. He'd killed all five and barely felt a thing. He needed bigger, stronger prey to maintain this rush, to keep this wonderful feeling in his soul alive. He began racing down hallways and corridors, up and down stairs, no longer paying any real attention to his surroundings.

He probably wouldn't even be able to find his way back to the bonfire. Not the he cared though. All he cared about was getting that next kill, and that next spark of power alighting within him.

He made a mad dash across a bridge on one of the upper levels. Ahead he could spy a group of Undead behind barricades, only three or four, but armored and well-muscled. A more substantial meal.

A shadow passed over him, unnoticed. He had eyes only for his prey. That the world seemed to be growing darker around him was none of his concern. Distantly, he registered the flap of wings. He didn't even have time to register the sudden intense pressure on his head and neck as the world before him seemed to shrink. And then there was nothing.

Lll

The sorcerer gasped as he opened his eyes. The bonfire was in front of him. He was back at the camp. He immediately fell forward and began to gasp and heave. He had been _dead!_

He had no memories of it. He, for all intents and purposes, had ceased to exist. He had experienced no void, no darkness, because he had no longer been capable of experience. There had been no He! He had been utterly, truly gone!

The thought of it made his skin itch and crawl. He'd be vomiting right now had he any stomach contents. It had been an experience he had no intention of ever repeating again.

Though that he was in a position to repeat it again raised a few questions. He had died, that much was sure, yet here he was. Safe and sound at the bonfire. And sane again, thank the gods. That mad lust for murder that had overtaken him appeared to have passed. He could think clearly again. And, he noted, he felt phenomenal. Really, just absolutely fantastic.

He knew he ought to be much, much more concerned about all this. He just died for fucks sake, something had killed him! After he himself had been driven into some sort of murder frenzy, since apparently he could now become heavily intoxicated by killing things!

But the air felt good and clean, his lungs seeming to carry much more than they used to. His body, while still a rotten mess, felt spry and strong, stronger perhaps than he'd ever felt even when he'd been human. And, most importantly of all, he was alive. And if that wasn't cause to celebrate, he didn't know what was.

Lll

He spent a good few days exploring the camp and the surrounding ruins, takin note of various oddities and points of interest, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the sky. The sorcerer was intensely aware that somewhere up there was the flying behemoth that crushed him to death before. He soon found he felt uncomfortable without something over his head.

The building, judging by the surrounding statues and adjacent graveyard, had likely once been a place of worship. The stone column leading up the mountainside appeared to be, to his great amazement, an elevator. The chains were rusted all to hell, the mechanisms above probably not much better off, and there was no platform in sight but still. Wow.

And as for the graveyard, well, the sorcerer had learned his lesson early on. He'd been trying to make out the name on an eroded tombstone when the scimitar burst from his chest. The pain had been…unpleasant, and the realization that he'd been struck by a walking skeleton horrifying, but he'd awakened and the bonfire safe and sound just like last time.

That made twice he'd died now, and while all indications pointed to his inability to die permanently he still decided he was more than through with the experience. Twice was one thing, but he had no intention of dying thrice. Luckily, it seemed the skeletons were either unwilling or incapable of leaving the graveyard, so as he long as he kept his distance it seemed he had little to fear from them.

At the opposite end was a short staircase, leading to a small lower plate just beneath the bonfire. Only two things of note were found there; a brick wall set into the earthen wall at the base of the plot atop which the bonfire set with, of all things, anti-magic runes craved into them and what appeared to be the tail end of an anti-magic field written into the ground, and, down another short staircase running along the side of the mountain, an old stone room with a deep pit in the middle. Judging by the mechanism it too was some sort of elevator, though far more advanced that the simple pulley system he'd seen at the column behind the ruins.

The mechanism on the floor not far away was likely once some sort of lever for raising and lowering the elevator, though said lever had apparently broken off long ago. Nothing to be done for it, he supposed. He still enjoyed examining the incredible stonework displayed within the room, as well as that found in the ruins. And, when he wasn't doing that, he would often be on his back. Resting.

He didn't sleep, not in any traditional sense, but it still felt nice now and then to lie out on the soft blankets in the tent for a few hours now and then. It felt nice, to lay there with something over his head, even if it was just canvas. It was relaxing, wasting away a few hours of the day in mindless comfort.

Though the term day might not be totally applicable. The sun, the sorcerer soon discovered, did not move.

Short of counting individually every second there was no reliable way for him to measure the passage of time. He used terms like hours and days out of habit, but the truth was it was nearly impossible for him to know exactly how long had been doing much of anything. Shadows were static, the light changing only as the thick grey clouds passed to and fro, often obstructing some if not most of the immobile sun.

If it even was the sun at all. It was too big, too close, its light too focused. Were such feats of magic possible the sorcerer would have sworn it was some sort of illusion. It certainly seemed to have the desired effect of one after all; it was a little surprising actually, the effect not being able to see any indication of the passage of time was having on his mental state.

Clearly a paranoid delusion of course. Such a feat was physically impossible; completely beyond the capabilities of the even the most advanced sorceries.

Still, regardless of its origin, the sorcerer began to notice a disturbing decline in his thinking. He spent less and less time studying the ruined architecture, the ancient contraptions. He even stopped taking his pleasant little pseudo-naps in the tent, opting instead to sit down near the bonfire with a blank stare on his face for hours, or what felt like hours, on end.

The last straw was when he realized the similarities between that state and the state he'd been in at the Asylum. Upon realizing this he immediately grabbed up his catalyst and sword before heading off towards the Undead Burg he'd rampaged through during his frenzy.

It was clear he couldn't afford to sit still in this place. Forces, real or imagined, he wasn't entirely sure, seemed arrayed against him, endeavoring to erode the precious sanity he'd only recently regained. He needed to move.

He needed to do something.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Sorcerer, in Pilgrimage**

The boxes were empty, of course. In truth he hadn't expected anything of value, most of the urns, pots, and boxes were crumbling themselves, making the chances of anything they might've once contained remaining salvageable pretty well and dismal. Most all contained the disintegrated remains of ancient clothing, foodstuffs or, most often, nothing at all. He checked the for posterities sake, nothing more.

What he wanted was books, plain and simple. He wanted to read something. Anything. Such fragile items would have long ago passed from this ancient rotting place he knew. Still, he could dream, yes?

In his heart of hearts he knew it wasn't just his unsatisfied love of reading that fueled his longing. Once, long ago, the sorcerer had possessed a vast repertoire of spells. He was no master wizard; his Soul Arrows were not the strongest, his Lights not the brightest, his Levitation not the most enduring. But he was one of the few who could competently cast all three, along with a slew of other spells ranging from sensory illusions to outright alteration of the physical world. He could both strike down enemies with offensive magic and, and other times, compel crops to grow at a faster rate. He sacrificed specialty for versatility, and it served him well.

But he had fallen so far.

The weakest form of Soul Arrow. Fall Control. The only tools remaining in his arsenal. He liked to believe that, could he only lay eyes on writing, on thought transmuted into physical form, he would remember the incantations and glyphs inscribed on scrolls once memorized by his eager mind. He could dream, yes?

He had no cause for melancholy though. The room he now inhabited, an open section along the upper tiers of a small tower that served as the support pillar for a bridge above contained a treasure far more valuable that spells or trinkets; a bonfire.

There was no way to travel to the lower levels from the room in the tower, not that he'd even wanted too. Howling could be heard down there. And the staircase leading upwards had collapse long ago, making vertical movement within the tower impossible. It was contained, small. Comfortable. The sorcerer immediately began turning it into his primary abode. It would be his base of operations, of sorts, as he explored the vast stone network that, at one point, appeared to have been some sort of residential Burg.

Those residents were long gone now though. All that remained were ruins and Undead. It was their Burg now.

Moving camp from the ruined shrine into the Undead Burg had been taxing, time consuming, and yet oddly satisfying. The sorcerer found he enjoyed having a clear task set out before him. Something to do.

The tent came first of course, he'd grown attached to its comfortable space and the many warm, soft furs and blankets piled within. The pouches and satchels, herbs and elixirs and potions and empty bottles came as well. He even liberated a couple of swords from the weapon pile, though most were beyond even his newfound strength and were left at the shrine, along with various bits of armor and clothing. And, of course, the dried meats. Urns and urns of dried meats he'd found, all totally useless to one such as himself.

The tower was, unfortunately, across the bridge from where he'd met his first end. He felt a chill go down his spine every time he crossed, and he could barely restrain himself from craning his head up and scanning the sky. That thing, whatever it was, seemed to be long gone, but he still found it a little unnerving to remain under open sky for too long.

Soon however everything he wanted was relocated to his new base of operations, and he rewarded himself with a nice relaxing not-nap in the tent. A short one, of course. It was quickly becoming clear that complacency had its consequences, and that he needed to occupy himself with something, anything, in order to avoid slipping into a stupor.

He was unsure if it was his cursed body or the strange properties of the land he found himself in. A bit of both, most like. Regardless, the rules were clear, and if occupying his mind was what it took to avoid hollowing then that's what he'd do.

It was time to survey the Undead Burg

Lll

The sorcerer made it a priority to kill every Undead within site of his little hidey-hole. Eliminating them entirely was impossible of course, as more would soon wander out of the proverbial woodworks a few hours later. The Burg was literally infested with them, like rats in a larder.

Most Undead nearby were located atop the upper tiers of the buildings across from the tower, accessed via a small, thin bridge. The sorcerer could make out several Undead loitering in the building at the other end of the bridge. At the very top of another building to his far left stood a gang of three, standing atop the roof and staring vacantly into space.

The sorcerer strode confidently across the bridge, catalyst in hand, scavenged sword sheathed at his hip. He no longer feared these pitiable creatures, not like he had back at the Asylum. The memory of his rampage through the Burg and his effortless slaughter of dozens still fresh in his mind.

And then a firebomb exploded behind him.

With a shout the sorcerer dashed forward, desperate to get out of range of his assailants, all his old fear rushing back. He may not be able to die permanently, but that didn't mean the idea of being burnt alive didn't terrify him.

He rolled through the threshold of the building, safe from the Undead up top chucking the firebombs, and got back to his feet in time to see the edge of a steel battle-axe hurdling towards his face.

The sorcerer back-stepped away from the swing effortlessly. It was incredible, the changes his body had gone through in the last few days. Not long ago that axe would've taken his head off. Now, it was as if he had all the time in the world to react, and that was without the fear of nearly being burnt alive coursing through his veins.

Before the hollow could even lift its weapon back up a Soul Arrow ripped through its skull. Two more hollows in the back of the room stirred and began shambling their way towards him. Too slowly. Soul Arrows put the pair down.

A jolt shot through the sorcerer's body. It was nothing like the euphoric wave he'd gotten before, but it was pleasant all the same. The air began to fill with the tell-tale scent of magic on flesh, a sharp, acidic smell the sorcerer found quite nostalgic.

Another hollow kicked in a door to his left, revealing a balcony below the wooden platforms those hollows had been flinging firebombs at him from. A Soul Arrow sent the mindless cretin flying back from whence he came, a gaping hole torn through its chest. From the doorway the sorcerer could see hollows dropping down from the platform above. Their firebombs expended, some drew blades while others charged with bare hands. One, at the far end, still possessed a firebomb and held it firmly in hand, ambling closer before cocking its arm back to throw.

Its arm disappeared in a flash of blue. More flashes followed, and it and its brethren fell like all the rest.

Another emerged from within the building. The sorcerer, mindful of his shortening breath and sore arm, lowered his catalyst and drew his sword. The hollow warily, or perhaps just sluggishly, approached. The sorcerer himself was tense, awkwardly trying to imitate something like a sword fighting stance, all his former confidence in his skills evaporating. It was one thing to use these brutish melee weapons while in the throes of a violent murder frenzy and something else entirely to do it while he had full control of his faculties.

Still, he couldn't keep on casting like he was without burning himself out. He could only cast so many Arrows without resting and recharging and he wanted to avoid being caught by a horde with only two or three casts in him. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? If the hollow defeated him, he could just come back a try again.

The sorcerer back-stepped a wide swing. The hollow followed through far more than necessary, nearly turning its back on the sorcerer as it twisted, and the sorcerer took advantage by stepping to the side, closing the distance, and impaling the hollow from behind, then kicking it away and to the ground.

Impalement wasn't enough to stop a hollow though, and it slowly made to rise before the sorcerer stomped down on its back, flattening it against the ground. This time the sorcerer drove his sword into the back of the hollows skull. The hollow went still.

The sorcerer kept both catalyst and sword at the ready as he entered into the building. The interior, unsurprisingly, was more of the same. Tables, shelves, pots, all rotted, rusted, and covered in dust.

Two doorways stood at the far side, one apparently leading to a balcony of sorts overlooking a staircase leading from and to elsewhere in the Burg, and the other into a secondary room containing copious, unoccupied shelf space and, oddly enough, and very large, very well crafted chest.

It was open and empty, of course, but what the sorcerer found interesting was the fact that inside appeared to be the crumbled remains of a very large, very thick book. The sorcerer suspected it was too good to be true. And it was.

He reached out to touch the spine and, the moment his finger made contact, it began to literally disintegrate before his eyes, collapsing into so much dust. With a sigh the sorcerer bent down and stared forlornly at the pile.

The sorcerer heard footsteps behind him.

He turned just in time to see a sword wielding hollow literally leap at him. Panicking, the sorcerer dove to the side, narrowly missing the edge of a blade and slamming his head into the corner of a table. Dazed, the sorcerer could put up no resistance to the hollows second strike.

Lll

The sorcerer awoke at the bonfire, and _seethed._

Lll

The sorcerer thundered back into the house, grinding to a halt once he reached the threshold of the room where he was last slain. There it stood, staring off into space with a distinctively brain-dead glimmer in its eye. Slowly it turned to face the sorcerer it had only recently murdered.

The sorcerer rammed into the hollow before it could react, knocking it its ass. A second later he had his catalyst in hand and a Soul Arrow whisked through the hollows gut, paying it back in kind for its earlier treatment.

He gathered up his sorcerer and left, his curiosity about the contents of the room long since dissipated. Instead, the sorcerer opted to head up a stairway set into the side of the building, going even further up into the reaches of the Burg.

It brought him to a wide open space above and behind the previous building, with a house and a small tower sitting at the far side. The group of three Undead loitering in the square were brought down quickly by a flurry of Soul Arrows. A silver lining to his earlier failure, he supposed; nothing recharged him like a quick rest at the bonfire.

He didn't even bother searching the house, assuring himself it was definitely just going to be more of what he'd already seen. Sturdier furniture's and ceramic pots, plates, and pans had survived, but most everything else it seemed had long since passed from the residences. Instead the sorcerer opted to climb the tower, intending to get a better view of his surroundings.

He carefully made his way up the dimly lit circular stairway inside, first surprising then slaying a hollowed archer who'd been keeping watch at the top. The view was quite something.

He, and the Burg, sat on the precipice of a large chasm dividing the lower and upper reaches of the city. On his right he saw that the Burg was sitting right between the edge of one of the massive curving walls and the deep chasm, as though the Burg itself was simply hanging onto the edge of the great city. On his left, across the other side of the black abyss, the mountain rose back up and continued to rise, up towards the clouds, before ending in a circular wall of epic proportions.

Behind him stood a bridge, support by a large tower holding up the center that, currently, was where the sorcerer kept his residence; he hadn't realized how far from home he'd wandered. The bridge began at the top of the large dividing wall and stretched all the way across the chasm to a collection of buildings and structures sitting at the base of the mountain. Some sort of fortification perhaps?

All points of interest for another time. The sorcerer's current concern was the small group of hollows dead ahead, waiting at the end of a side path directly in front of and below the tower. They were out of range and, more troubling, apparently still retained the wherewithal to carry and employ large metal shields. Luckily, he could barely make out a raised balcony jutting out from a house sitting back on the plaza that he could do a little sniping from.

He hurried back down the stairs and made a beeline back to the house, blowing the locked door off its hinges. Inside was the same ruined domicile he expected to find but, at the back, he spied the threshold of a doorway leading out to the balcony. And, oddly enough, a rather large chest, showing none of the age or decay he'd expect it to.

There would be time for that later though.

He stood at the edge of the balcony and, looking out over a group of three hollows, two with shields, let loose a Soul Arrow.

The Arrow impacted the shield of one and got the attention of all three. As the sorcerer expected, a lot of the impact and tearing damage of his magic had been lost to the lifeless shield. To be sure, the magic was eating away at the hollows arm at that very second, the arm that held the shield most likely fracturing in dozens of placing and the skin bubbling and peeling off, muscles literally unraveling as magic seeped in from the struck shield and reacted to organic material. Such injuries, however, were nothing to a hollow. A normal human would have been severely debilitated, but for a hollow anything less than absolute lethality was not enough.

Still, thought the sorcerer, good luck lifting that shield again.

He stood and watched as the group ran around the side of the house, up the stairs toward the tower and beyond his field a vision. He turned and walked up to the threshold of the doorway leading to the balcony, eyes on the front door at the far side of the house. Sure enough the hollows came filing in; the one in front walking off balance, its scorched arm hanging useless against its side.

The sorcerer had the advantage of distance. One by one he picked them off, all three falling right inside the house. Child's play.

His breath was coming quicker, however. He had to steady himself against the side of the doorway as he turned to back out onto the balcony. He felt light headed. His arm ached. He was wearing himself out.

Briefly the sorcerer considered simply dropping down where he stood and meditating, a process that would, in a matter of hours, replenish his dwindling reserves of magic. He could then continue exploring the Burg at full strength. The trance like state would leave him vulnerable however, and he didn't much care to leave himself defenseless that deep into the Burg. He had, afterall, gone much farther in than he'd originally planned. Perhaps it was time for a tactical retreat, a return to the bonfire for rest and recuperation.

First things first however, he thought, as he moved toward the alluring chest. It moved a little roughly on its hinges, the metal showing the age that the wood didn't, but was still of better quality than he'd expected. Sorcerer even thought about taking it back to the bonfire with him, sure he'd fine some use for it eventually. That was until he got a good look at its contents.

To the untrained eye it looked like a thick layer of bright yellow gunk stuck to the bottom of the chest. The sorcerer's eye was far from untrained however, and recognized this treasure for what it was immediately; Gold Pine Resin.

Thorolund kept a tight monopoly on the trees from which such resin was produced. It was considered a divine gift, and production of the resin was outlawed within its borders by all by the highest ranking church officials. Many years ago an order of cleric knights had even traveled the world, studiously tracking down and felling all trees and groves beyond Thorolunds borders. They went as far as inciting all-out war with Astora and, what was at that time, a very young Carim, the outcome of which solidified the theocracies domination of the production and distribution of the resin.

The Dragon School of Vinheim, of course, kept its own supply, privy only to master sorcerers and select chosen apprentices, such as himself, for use in experiments. Very little could be produced even by a grove of trees however, so rare was the day when the Schools stash was actually dipped into.

This box contained more resin than perhaps the whole of Vinheim. One soldier would be worth twenty with as much resin as the box held. And even more incredible was that, judging by the stained yellow rings around the edges, there had been even more at some point in the past! Someone had had quite the supply. And the remnants of the great bounty were all his now.

The sorcerer, exercising caution, decided such dangerous material was best left were it was. Ideally he would cast Chameleon on it, disguising it from wandering hollows, but as he was he'd just have to trust in the hollows relative stupidity and assume none of them would have any idea what the stuff was. Or how to open the box, for that matter.

Getting over the shock of his discovery, the sorcerer let the lid fall back down and made his way back to the bonfire, propping the broken door back up in the doorway. It was no Chameleon, but it would have to do.

First, he'd return to the bonfire, rest for a minute, perhaps have a quote un-quote nap. Then he'd return, this time with a nice sturdy pouch or satchel. He really would have nothing to fear then, not with one of the most dangerous and sought after tools in the world hanging off his belt.

Lll

The sorcerer returned to where the gang of shield bearing undead had been standing sentinel, a nice, heavy cloth sack tied securely to his belt.

He stood at a crossroads.

To his left was a staircase leading up to the edge of the massive, curving wall that separated the Burg from the rest of the city. On his right was another staircase, this one leading further down, presumably deeper into the bowls of the Burg. Distantly the sorcerer remembered the intermittent growls, barks, and howls he would occasionally hear from below and decided that down staircases should be avoided whenever possible.

He made his way up the stairs on the left, feeling good, not only because of his recharged magic pool but also because of the lovely little treasure tied to his side. Things were going well.

He raised his head and saw a barrel crest the top of the stairs. The barrel then proceeded to spontaneously catch fire and start rolling down at him.

With a yelp the sorcerer jumped backwards, forgetting in his panic that he was on stairs. The terrified sorcerer landed hard at the base of the staircase and immediately threw himself into a roll to the side. He heard, and felt, the flaming wooden barrel smash against stone that, only seconds ago, he'd been lying in front of.

The sorcerer propped up on his elbows in time to see a hollow, presumably what set fire to and pushed the barrel, rushing down the stairs. A Soul Arrow took its leg off at the knee, sending it plummeting the rest of the way down until it collided with the same stone wall the sorcerer had fallen against.

The sorcerer rose, stretched, and dusted himself off. The hollow, crippled but still functional, was trying to pull itself across the ground towards him, its bottomless black eyes locked onto its prey. The sorcerer lazily sidestepped the grasping hollow before heading up the stairs, the maimed hollow trying in vain to follow.

The sorcerer reached the top of the stairs and, almost like an afterthought, turned back and fired off another Soul Arrow, this one piercing the hollows skull, finishing the monster off.

He headed off into the wall itself, entering a tower that made up the very edge. To his left stood another staircase, circling the wall and leading up, up beyond the wooden floor above him and, presumably, the top of the wall itself. Ahead of him stood a simple wooden door.

The sorcerer approached the door and, finding it locked, readied a Soul Arrow, aiming to blast off its hinges. He released the Arrow, only to have it dissipate within inches of the door. Interesting.

Another Soul Arrow, so make sure the phenomenon was repeatable. And sure enough, the Arrow dissipated into thin air several feet away from the door, as though the spell had hit a brick wall. The sorcerer moved to inspect the door.

It was, by all accounts, an ordinary, if somewhat aged wooden door. Iron hinges, a little rusted, but nothing out of the ordinary. He was however able to make out dark, faint marks on the stone around the door.

As he brushed away the dirt and dust and soot that had accumulated over countless years a dim orange light began to emanate from the wall, illuminating the sorcerers decayed face. Runes. Glowing runes. Runes he, and any other graduate of the Dragon School of Vinheim, would have recognized immediately. An Anti-Magic Field, the pride of Thorolund clerics and all who wished Vinheim ill.

And, at the same time, it was like nothing he'd ever seen. The number of runes was nearly triple what was required for the strongest Field he knew of, and included two or three runes in conspicuous places that he, despite his years of study on the matter, didn't even recognize. Incredible.

He reached forward with his finger, trying to scrape at the softly glowing layer of cut stone. No luck. His fingers were too thick, the carvings to thin. He looked at his sword, but the weight and size was far from ideal; he'd have to stand too far back to hold it by the handle, and holding I close up by the blade was begging to lose fingers.

He dropped both sword and catalyst and made a mad dash back to whence he came. He barreled up and down stairs, hopped over discarded weapons and plowed through the ash piles formed from the many hollows he'd slew along the path, practically throwing himself around corners and kicking through doorways.

He rushed back into his tower and broke his momentum by slipping on a loose stone and nearly breaking his neck. He righted himself and, gasping for air, hurriedly began gathering material before heading back out, this time at a much more controlled pace.

He arrived back at the site. He carefully leaned his catalyst against the far wall and kicked his sword out of the way, making room for himself as he kneeled down in front of one of the runes. The light revealed a bright smile sneaking its way onto his decayed face as he carefully eased the thin dagger into the cut of the rune and began scraping off bits of stone, collecting the lightly glowing dust in a small pouch held in his other hand just below the tip of the dagger.

The powder like scrapings still contained the mysterious orange glow. Even better, even after he scraped a few layers off a single spot the glow remained, as though it had seeped into the brick itself; which he would remove were he not concerned about the structural integrity of the already crumbling tower.

The sorcerer spent several hours filling his pouch with scrapings and thoroughly ruining that dagger. Finally, satisfied that he'd collected enough, he returned the pouch to his larger sack and withdrew some burnt coal and several large sheets of thin, durable paper. He did his best to sketch the runes in as accurately as possible with the tools on hand, taking special care with copying down the unknown mystery runes. He took the finished product and tied it securely to the top of satchel he kept at his side. One never knew what might come in handy, he mused.

Several hours later and he was ready to return, eager to examine the shavings he'd collected and to test the accuracy of his copied runes. He stopped halfway across the room though, his eyes drifting to the staircase along the side of the wall, leading up higher into the tower.

What other treasures might await him up there?

The temptation was too great. He had to peek, at least. He gently set his materials up against the far wall and gathered back up his sword and catalyst before heading up the stairs.

The next floor up was a disappointment; dozens of empty barrels dominated an otherwise empty room. The subsequent floor at first glance appeared much the same; luckily the sorcerer elected to continue checking the most likely empty barrels for posterity's sake. His scrupulousness paid off when, upon looking down into the barrel closest to the stairs, he spied the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

A lizard, about the size of large housecat, encrusted with sparkling gemstones and crystals.

Even in the dim tower the lizard's crystals shone with an otherworldly beauty. The largest, a sparkling white one the size of a child's head jutting out its back, actually appeared to be visibly radiating a very dim, soft light. The sorcerer couldn't contain the "Aww" that slipped through his lips as he reached down to grab it. It was just so…pretty. And cute.

The creature must have sensed his approach, because the moment his hands went out it began clawing and scuttling around the edges of the barrel, looking for a way out. Poor baby. Gently he put one hand on the crystal on the lizards back, slowly tipping it over enough to slide his other hand under the soft ivory scales its belly. Carefully he lifted the kicking creature up and out of the barrel before gingerly setting it to the ground.

The crystal lizard began running the moment it touched the ground, rushing away at great speed away, practically throwing itself down the stairs. The sorcerer silently hoped it would be alright out there on its own before continuing his way up the tower

Lll

The very top of the tower proved to be inaccessible, the staircase and most of the upper level having apparently crashed in on itself. The highest floor available to him however did have a door way leading outside, so he elected to leave the tower and see just how high up he'd gotten.

Looking round the sorcerer found he was now standing atop the great wall itself. Looking over the side on his left he could see several huge plateaus jutting off the main mountain, some containing rocky, barren wastelands and other containing what appeared to be entire forests. All, however, stretched to and ended at a steep, sudden drop, falling far, far down below beneath a sea of clouds.

He didn't realize he was so high up. Almost reverently he turned his gaze back to his surroundings, looking at the massive structures with a newfound sense of awe. Marvelous. Truly this was once the land of an ingenious people.

On his right he saw he was now almost level with the strange fortification at the other end of the bridge. More interesting was the second structure he could now just barely make out behind the first. He was too far away to be sure, but it looked significantly older than the rest of his surroundings, and was apparently built right into the side of the mountain. And of course, high above it all, stood the massive ring wall at the very top of the mountain, itself large enough to contain a whole other city.

The sorcerer could only ask himself; what was this place?

Leaning over the side, he followed the curvature of the wall, guessing somewhere ahead was the top of the bridge his temporary home was holding up.

Onwards, then.

As he leisurely made his way across the top of the wall he sorcerer couldn't help but wonder what this land must have been like fully populated. He could, at least, reliably assert they were the militarily dominant power here; even with his limited knowledge of warfare he could see that a conventional invasion against such a vast and complex cityscape would be fruitless.

But if not war, what had driven them out. Famine? Pestilence? Certainly possible, considering the staggering number of residents that must have once occupied even this portion of the land. But to drive out everyone?

It seemed more likely they had succumb to a mass break-out of the Undead, like the ancient kingdom of Balder. It would certainly explain the mass of hollows that populated the ruins, though if that would so it would beg the question of why there weren't _more_. It was, after all, not like they would die off on their own.

His thoughts returned to the stockpile of weapons he'd found at the shrine camp, weapons from Astora and Carim and Thorolund.

The ground shook as a demon leapt from the tower a few hundred yards ahead of him.

The sorcerer froze for a second at the sight of it. A bone shattering roar shook him back into motion as he turned back and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

He could see from where he was that something was wrong with the door back into the tower, but his mind was blank from fear and shock. As he reached it however his mind caught back up with his eyes.

Magic. Some sort of barrier, formed of white clouds, radiating magic stronger than anything he'd ever felt before, making his teeth grind.

The whole wall seemed to shake with the demons approach. He dared not look back. To his left stood a ladder, between the stairs leading from the doorway and the edge of the wall that reached up to the very top of the tower. The sorcerer hopped the partition and hauled himself up the ladder, his dead heart trying to thump is way out of his ribcage.

Two hollow archers stood sentry up top; he dropped both with Soul Arrows instantly, fear sharping his developing reflexes. He walked shakily to the edge of the tower and watched the demon thunder across the top of the wall below.

It slammed into the tower with enough force to nock stones loose; the Sorcerer barely kept from falling over the edge. The demon looked up. The sorcerer looked down, and caught his gaze. A massive, furred, muscled body, topped with a stone face wrought in the shape of a bull stared up at him, its deep, bottomless black eyes boring through his very soul with a kind of hatred he could't even fathom.

He should not be afraid.

He was terrified. His legs shook. His heart thudded. His stomach hurt.

He'd died so many times, it should be no different.

It felt different. It felt horrible. He was scared.

The sorcerer clenched his fist.

He no longer had anything to fear from death.

Still shaking, the fearful sorcerer drove his dagger into the pouch at his side, coating the metal in Gold Pine Resin.

He walked right out onto the edge, dagger clenched it both hands so hard it hurt, and leapt off.

Lll

He landed hard, but his dagger found its mark. The electrified dagger was only a few inches deep and still lightening tore through the demons body. Fur around the dagger began to smoke and sizzle. It convulsed, throwing the sorcerer off as its free hand stretched back to find the dagger imbedded in its neck.

The disoriented sorcerer fell through what felt like an endless, blurred abyss, until suddenly the cold, stone ground rushed up to meet him. The pain was jarring, but no worse than his prior experiences with impalement. Better, even, since his eyes weren't opening to the sight of the bonfire.

Quickly he rose to his feet and watched as the demon struggled to knock loose the resin coated dagger stuck in the back of its neck. Seeing an opportunity he unleashed a Soul Arrow at its left leg, expecting the spell to blow off chunks.

The sorcerer was dismayed to see a small, smoking flesh wound open up on the demons leg.

It got the beasts attention however. It turned, muscles still wracked with spasms, arcs of electricity occasionally shooting out from the dagger embedded in it, and gazed down upon the sorcerer. It raised its hammer. He turned to run.

The hammer came down with enough force to make the wall itself tremble, stones along the edges coming loose and falling off. Luckily the demon couldn't move properly, so the sorcerer found himself more than capable of backpedaling away from the struggling titan. However, he knew his time was short.

The resin would burn through itself any minute now. He had to capitalize on his advantage while he had it, lest the demon recover and crush him.

Dozens of Soul Arrows flew into the demons right leg successively, each building upon the wounds of the last. The sorcerer could feel the strain tearing at his arm; casting at such a pace was an easy way for a sorcerer to ruin their body, and already he could feel the ill effects of magic coursing through his brittle frame.

The demon fell to one knee, the lightening in its neck fading as the pain in its leg grew. Furiously it struggled to reach the sorcerer, who took advantage of the beast's impaired movement to stay just out of reach of its hammer.

And then the pain was gone, the Gold Pine resin completely burnt through. With a roar it charged, launching itself at the sorcerer, hammer raised.

The sorcerer noticed at the last minute that the resin had worn off. He'd been in the middle of another cast, distracted by his own tortures, this time aiming for the demons exposed eyes. The demon charged right into the bolt. It reared back in surprise, swinging its hammer to early and narrowly missing the exhausted sorcerer.

The force of the swing was still enough to knock the sorcerer onto his back though, his abused body thudding against unforgiving stone. He watched from the ground as the demon brought its hand up to its eye, confused as to why half the world went dark. The sorcerer raised his arm and began to cast, emptying the magic from his body into three Soul Arrows. Each hit their mark, piercing the infuriated demons eye and penetrating into its skull.

With a weak, pitiable moan the creature fell to its knees, then collapsed. The sorcerer rolled away as it fell, barely avoiding being crushed by its bulk. He quickly stood and turned towards the prone form of the demon, half expecting it to rise. If it did, he hoped he'd have the courage to throw himself from the wall. It would be scarier certainly, but probably less painful than what the demon would do to him. It might even eat him. He shuddered at the thought.

Additionally, he did not want to give the monster the satisfaction of victory.

Luckily the demon did not rise. Instead its body began to crumble, dissolving into a rather large pile of ash. Seconds after the sorcerer realized the implications of what he'd just done, the frenzy struck.

Lll

The sorcerer raced across the wall, into the far tower, and down the stairs. He felt as though he were moving at a different speed than the world around him, that everything else was going just a little bit too slow.

One flight of stairs landed him at the far end of the bridge. The edges of his vision were blurred, though directly ahead he could clearly see across the bridge an open portcullis leading into the fortification he'd wanted to explore. And between that and him stood hollows, archers and spearmen, dozens spread out across the bridge.

An arrow pierced his shoulder. He felt nothing. Reaching over he gripped the wooden shaft and ripped it out, thick, dark blood slowly dripping from the wound. Such primitive weapons could not hurt him; he was a being of a much higher caliber. He was beyond fear of mundane, mortal weapons. He was a god. And killings these unworthy vermin would make him all the more powerful.

More arrows pierced his arms and torso, though he was far beyond noticing by then. He raised his catalyst. Magic traveled from his arm up along its length, but rather than immediately bursting forth it lingered at the very tip, twisting back and forth into itself, growing pure and dense.

A light not quite pure white erupted from the tip, obliterating his chosen target. Every hollow in range was felled by in the same manner before the sorcerer let his catalyst fall to the ground and drew his sword. He wanted to kill the rest up close. It would be so much more visceral, so much more intimate.

With a yell he charged, spear wielding hollows from further back rushing up to meet him, supported by hollowed crossbowmen taking shots and the mad sorcerer. A quarter way across the bridge the sorcerer suddenly heard the familiar sound of large, flapping wings. Eagerly he turned around, overjoyed by the idea that he would get to kill the beast that had been haunting him from above.

Even in his frenzied state his spirits fell, just a little, as he saw the massive red dragon come flying out over the bridge. If flew past the front end of the bridge and turned, angling itself so it aligned with the bridge, fire visible within its gaping maw. The sorcerer gave another yell and threw his sword, fully expecting it to rush from his hand and pierce the fire-spawn's heart.

It clattered to the ground a few feet away.

The sorcerer watched with a mixture of disbelief and impotent fury as the dragon reached the edge of the bridge and engulfed the whole structure in flame.

There was pain like nothing he had ever felt before. And then there was nothing.

Lll

The sorcerer awoke filled with astonishment, like nothing he'd ever felt before. A smile worked its way across his rotted features. A _dragon_!

That smile vanished when he realized his catalyst was gone. He'd reincarnated without it.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Knight, in Repose**

The knight knelt before the altar and prayed. To whom? No one in particular. He had never truly accepted the silent gods of his adoptive homeland, and the gods of his fathers were foreign to him. And yet still he found himself compelled to kneel before the altar of the chapel and pray.

He had done so all his life. His was, by reputation, a faithful and godly order of knights. It was expected, even if a great many of the order harbored atheism in their hearts, that they at least maintain the image of piety in public for the sake of that reputation. And so, when required, the knight had knelt and prayed, asking the air before him for strength, mercy, forgiveness, and so on and so forth. It had, after a while, become something of a habit.

The knight opened his eyes. A desiccated corpse lay across the altar before him. A woman perhaps, based on the hips, but the knight couldn't be sure. Whoever it was their body had been prepared quite well, to have lasted so long out in the open. He hoped it had been some sort of funeral rite, though personally he thought the whole tableau stunk of religious sacrifice.

He raised his head to gaze upon the statue overlooking the altar. These easterners had a truly barbarous history with such perversions.

Fire was raking across his arm. He didn't have long. His left hand gripped the edge of the altar, the only thing keeping him from falling over, while his right arm lay limp against his side, twisted into an unnatural shape. The right pauldron was ruined, completely caved in, rivulets of blood oozing out from where the metal had been torn. Blood had been pooling in his gauntlet for some time, and now had reached the point where it was beginning to seep from the openings around his wrist.

The pain was nothing. Had he been human, it would've been a damning injury. He'd lose the arm, his sword arm, at the very least. And that was only if he didn't bleed to death trying to get the armor off.

He'd have to just hack the whole limb off. Perhaps a doctor could save it, but this land had no such men, so amputation it would have to be. He'd need to burn the wound closed fast, with the fire he didn't have, so as not to bleed out. He'd need to wrap the wound in clean cloth he didn't have, soaked in the medicinal oils he'd left in his pack back at camp.

And then he would wait for infection to set in, reach his heart, and kill him. Such was the fate he'd expected when he'd been cast out from Astora. He'd soon discovered however that his fear had been nothing.

His injury was nothing.

Death, was nothing.

He would rise, again and again, in a mockery of the sacred act of resurrection. He was no human, and he would never need fear their fate. He had his own horror waiting for him, a horror much greater than the specter of death that had haunted him as a man. Eternity. Eternity and madness.

His vision was beginning to blur. His arm didn't hurt anymore either, the whole limb going quietly numb. The knight released his grip of the altar and reached out. His hand, wavering, found the hand of the corpse and wrapped around it. The knight couldn't feel anything through the armor, but the weight was there. It wasn't the same. But it would do.

The knight slumped to the side, and the world went black.

Lll

The knight opened his eyes. Before him danced the flames of the bonfire. A pleasing scent filled the air around him. He felt as though he was lying on a featherbed of the finest make. He was completely and totally at rest. He rolled over onto his side, his preferred sleeping position, inadvertently putting himself out of the fires range. Suddenly the warmth and incense was gone. He was laying on a cold wooden floor, in full armor. His movements had disturbed dust and ash that had been accumulating for who knows how long, filling the air with a stale scent.

For a brief moment the knight contemplated turning back over and losing himself in the fire.

With a grunt he picked himself up off the floor. He rolled his right arm, trying to work out the stiffness. The pauldron, and the shoulder beneath it, were good as new, but the memory of injury was set deep in his bones. He'd be feeling phantom aches for days.

Steel boots thudded against the wooden floor as the knight made his way to the corner of the room. A bitter cold set in as he drew further from the fire. There in the corner he'd been stacking his salvage and belongings, and from the pile he retrieved a vial of purple ointment, a large, hideous patchwork fur cloak, a green satchel, and a large crate.

He wrapped the vial and satchel in the cloak and carried it with one hand, easily lifting the entire crate above his head with the other. He set the crate down near the fire, close enough to feel its warmth and far enough to keep from losing himself. Then he set himself down on the crate, laying the cloak on the ground near his feet.

Removing his armor was always a tedious task. It had been a much bigger problem in the beginning though, when he'd first set out on his Mission. He'd become spoiled during his years in the order, grown accustomed to having his men-at-arms remove his armor for him. Every knight-brother had ten, and while a few were seasoned warriors most were glorified squires. And he had used them as such.

It had made him soft. But he'd gotten better. With a bang the last metal plate had fallen to the ground, joining the others in the pile, awaiting maintenance. A nearly naked hollow now sat upon the crate, its dry red skin stretched taunt across a tall, muscular frame clothed only in a faded brown loincloth. The knight stared at his hands, transfixed at the change that had overcome them. He clenched and unclenched his fists, watching muscles and veins ripple beneath the hardened dead skin wrapped around his forearms.

There had been a time when death had left him nearly a skeleton, clothed in soft decaying skin, his limbs utterly devoid of strength. Those had been bad years, especially when death had coincided with lean times, those periods when the little black sprites that were his salvation were nowhere to be found.

He had come so far since then.

Carefully the knight unfolded the cloak and retrieved his little green satchel. Pulling it open revealed a pile of soft and clean white cloth, spools of thick thread, needles and small knives and other exacting tools, and a single little black mass. The knight reached in, grabbed the black sprite, and crushed it. A soft warmth settled in his chest.

He bowed his head before the bonfire, clasped his hands together, and pretended to pray.

He felt no change. There was no sensation of life returning to his dead body, no great surge of energy or feeling. It was rather a curious emptiness that settled in upon him, far removed from the rush he could still barely feel when he slew hollows. The knight opened his eyes.

There, clasped together in front of his face, where human hands. Red had been replaced by black, the skin looking smooth and healthy. His nails had returned, as had the hairs along his arms. The knight flexed his hands; the veins were no longer visible.

Looking himself over the knight saw that everything was back where it should be, scars and all. He inhaled. The air felt fuller.

The knight stood and unwrapped his old loincloth, tossing the soiled garment into the flame. He reached down and carefully removed another from the stack in his small green satchel, slowly wrapping the fresh white cloth around himself. He relished the luxury while he could, as it was only a matter of time before he ran out. Already the stack of cloth in the satchel was beginning to look a little low.

The knight wrapped the cloak back around his body and sat back down before reaching for the small vial of ointment. Another luxury. He removed the small glass top and carefully let a miniscule drop fall into the palm of his hand. He began to rub the ointment into what had been his injured shoulder, the phantom pains his mind inflicted on him slowly receding as the medicine seeped deep into his skin. A famliar scent, not unlike that of the bonfire, began to fill the air.

He closed his eyes, and for just a moment the knight was far, far away. The hand rubbing his shoulder was that of another, standing behind him. He could feel hair tickling his shoulder.

The knight opened his eyes and stood, gathering up the vial and satchel and returning it to his pile. Reaching further in the knight procured a small shortsword, a belt, and a pair of well-worn boots, stuffed with cloth and fur for warmth.

Donning the boots and affixing the belt and sword to his waist the knight made towards the staircase at the far side of the room. He pulled the warm cloak tight around himself, fighting the cold breeze emanating from above.

There were bodies to search.

Lll

The church was littered with corpses. Well, ash piles actually, but the knight chose to call them what they really were. The remains of the slain. He'd cut a bloody swath through the Undead Parish, basking in the glow of combat, mindless of the work he'd be leaving behind for himself later on. He needed to check every single body in the Parish, from chapel to bridge, for the precious black sprites. He'd find two, if he was lucky.

The bodies of the little ones, those nearly skeletal Undead who'd massed in the upper levels of the church alongside the wizard, had all blown away in the wind. Armor could keep the vital chest area more or less together, but the rags the little ones had worn provided little to no protection once he'd reduced them to ash. Just as well, such weaklings never had anything good in them.

The others however held promise. The knight searched among the pews first, looking for what remained of his shield. He found it at the very back, its momentum had sent cracks shooting out into the wood of the pew, and the metal itself was torn beyond repair. Damn it. He'd liked that shield. Though to be fair, it was a small wonder in and of itself that the blow that ripped it from his grasp hadn't taken the arm off as well.

Speaking of which…

The knight stepped out onto the threshold separating the church proper from the spacious entry hall. Empty armor lay arranged like some sort of strange tableau in the center of the room. Three suits of the queer armor worn by unusually dexterous undead knights sat in a circle around the middle, the tiny joints of the strangely revealing plates connected only by thin lines of ash. And between the three lay the real prize, the big bastard himself.

Huge black armor, sized for a man twice the of the knight, lay in a heap at the very middle of the room. It had collapsed as its occupant turned to ash; the shaft of the spear was still sticking out from the helmet, the point buried deep within the visor.

The knight ran his hand cross the smooth steel breastplate, appreciating the quality of the work. Truly the man must have been a titan before he'd succumbed to the curse. Shame, the knight thought, that the armor was sized to such ridiculous proportions. He wouldn't mind having that armor for himself.

He easily lifted the breastplate away, the weight significant but far from the boundaries of his strength. Inside lay a huge pile of soft grey ash, which the knight carefully began sifting through with his blade.

He intentionally let the edge of that particular sword go blunt, so as not to destroy the sprites before he'd gotten his hands on them. It shamed him to think of all the sprites he'd lost in those early years, rushing through piles of ash with gauntleted hands or sharp swords. The little things were very finicky, requiring a slow, delicate touch.

Jackpot!

Carefully the knight slid his bare hands into the ash just beneath the sprite, lifting them up slowly so it lay right in his palms. He slowly brought the hands around to the little cloth bag at his side, tilting his hands so that the sprite slide off and into the bag.

The knight let his hands fall and stared at the lone sprite sitting at the bottom of the pouch. That was his very life, right there. The tether that kept him secured to sanity, anchoring him to reality. How dependent he'd become. How easily he could be lost.

The knight tied the bag and affixed it to his hip. As he rose his eyes fell upon the massive mace the hollow had wielded. Curious the knight bent and wrapped his hands around the handle. Such a weapon, at one point, would have been nearly impossible for him to even lift. As it was, the knight found it somewhat strenuous, but no more than the large weapons he'd trained with in Astora, bastard swords and hammers.

The knight tried out a few swings, finding the weapon to be usable but very, very unwieldy. It was simply not built for his proportions. He set it back down next to the armor. Perhaps he'd come back for it later and add it to his collection back at camp.

He set to work sifting through the remains of the other hollows. Distantly he heard the Drake guarding the gate roar. Something was upsetting it. The knight cocked his head and listened for wing beats. He'd need to take shelter quickly if it was on the move.

Nothing. Still on its perch then. He went back to work on the ashes.

Lll

The knight stepped out of the chapel and stood beneath the overcast sky. Ahead of him were descending stairs, leading down towards the main street. The portcullis was down, and on the other side could be seen piles of ash and weapons. The knight went down the stairs, looking on with dismay at the single slain hollow on his side of the gate whose ashes were now scattered all over the steps. A sprite would've never survived the impact of the fall.

The knight easily pulled back the large lever on his side of the portcullis, kick starting whatever ancient mechanism controlled the raising and lowering of the gate. The knight headed down towards the street, ruminating on the wonder that was the armored boar.

The boar itself was long gone, perhaps even dead, though the knight couldn't be sure. It vanished, dissipating in a cloud of light, after having a spear rammed up its unprotected ass. The knight had been mystified when he'd seen it happen, so much so that a hollow managed to sneak up behind him a land a killing blow. He suspecting the wizard had something to do with it; the whole think stunk of magic. But still, nothing should be able to save the boar from the wound the knight had inflicted on it. Wherever it was, it was surely dead.

Almost as interesting as the strange manner of its death however was the very concept of the creature itself. The knight remembered stories of ancient Astoran knights leading great armored beasts into battle, riding them like mounts. Hell, the knights own sigil, given to him by his order back when he'd still been a proper knight, had been a giant boar.

Such beasts had died out long ago however, if they even existed at all, and all that remained were stories. Stories and the one boar the knight had found, here in this forsaken land. The knight found the idea attractive, a beast protected by plates of armor its whole life. Pain and fear would be foreign to it, it would believe itself invincible. A dozen or so would be a terror on the battlefield.

The knight supposed it would be not unlike what he himself had become. Whereas the armored beast would escape fear of death by never knowing pain, the knight had himself escaped fear by knowing that pain, no matter how great or severe, could never truly kill him.

Is that what he had become? Would he one day be no more than a mindless beast, wandering a dead city in search of blood?

He was torn from his thoughts by a hollow dashing out into the opposite end of the street. The hollow froze when it laid eyes on the knight, who reached down and wrapped his hand around his sword. Rather than rush him however the hollow did a double-take and broke for the side path, heading for an upper balcony hanging off the edge of the main street.

Hollows do not double take. Or run with coordination, for that matter. This, clearly, was no hollow.

The knight started to call out to the other Undead, a smile breaking out on his face at the thought of meeting another sane individual. His voice caught in his throat however when he saw what the Undead had been running from; a charging Black Knight rounded the corner. Cursing, the knight sheathed his sword before running back towards the church.

Lll

The sorcerer thought he had it cornered at the stairs. He'd carefully timed the charge on a Heavy Soul Arrow, loosing the slow burning spell just as the black armored knight turned the corner. The sorcerer instantly regretted putting so much of his magic into the spell. That man, the big one dressed in furs, was still unaccounted for and he didn't need to burn himself out too quickly. As it turned out, he didn't need to worry about wasting the magic.

He'd expected to tear a gaping hole through the black knight's midsection. The knight turned mid stride, catching a glancing blow on its side. Its armor remained unscathed. The sorcerer turned and ran to the edge of the balcony. The black knight stepped out in front of him, calmly advancing. It knew its prey was cornered now.

Loud footsteps could be heard pealing down the street, turning the corner, and heading up the stairs. The sorcerer stared in amazement as the human dressed in furs dashed out onto the balcony, strange armor strapped to its forearms and shins, lugging behind himself a mace twice the size of his own head.

The black knight turned in time to catch a swing of the massive mace with it shield, effortlessly knocking the blow away to the side. The Undead dropped the mace and jumped backwards, narrowly avoiding the black knight's riposte. The man then drew from his side a…blunted sword?

The sorcerer felt his shoulders sag. He was doomed.

Lll

The knight strafed to the side, mirroring the movements of the Black Knight. He knew it was shepherding him onto the same side of the balcony, preventing attacks on its back, but he was in no position to do anything about it. His armor and weapons were back at the bonfire, and going for the fallen mace now would leave him too exposed. A glance behind him told him the Undead was unarmed and unarmored as well, carrying nothing but pouches and a damn stick.

The knight doubted his blunted sword would be any more useful against the Black Knight's armor than his hastily scavenged armor would be against its sword. If only he could get it on the ground…

The Black Knight rushed forward, throwing its sword out to the side in preparation for a massive swing that'd likely cleave the knight in two. One good the about these guys, thought the knight, was that they put far too much of their weight into their attacks. He could see them coming from miles away.

The knight took advantage of his smaller size, deftly ducking under the Black Knights blade once it had committed itself to the swing. The knight back up farther as the Black Knight recovered, putting himself behind it. A good position, if he'd had anything that could break through the bastard's armor.

The Black Knight was turning to face him when a ball of light shot out from nowhere, striking it in the head. It staggered, too much of its weight forced onto one leg. The knight saw his opening.

He slammed into the unbalanced Black Knight with his shoulder, throwing it off its feet. He distantly registered hearing the Black Knight's sword fall to the ground. Pressing his advantage the knight straddled his opponent and tore off his horned helmet, expecting a hollowed head he could pummel into oblivion.

Instead he just stared, stunned, at the swirling cloud of ashes that filled the black armor.

The knight felt hands grasping at his cloak. Quickly he slipped out of the garment, standing in only his loincloth, boots, and scavenged armor. The Black Knight tossed the cloak aside and made to rise, one hand reaching out for its fallen sword. It was interrupted by another bolt of light striking its side, knocking its hand away. The knight rushed forward and grabbed up his foe's monstrous black blade, jumping back as the Black Knight exploded up from the ground, hands grasping for his throat.

They circled one another, the black knight forcing him over to stand between it and the sorcerer. The knight dared a brief glance back at his strange ally; labored breathing, slumped shoulders, trembling legs. Not good.

The knight let loose a battle cry, charging and feinting an overhand swing. As the Black Knight raised its shield to parry he pulled out of his swing and went low, again using his shorter stature to strike at his enemy's legs. This time the blade tore into the black knights armor, swirling streams of ash pouring out from the openings around the edge of the blade.

With superhuman strength the knight tore the blade out from where it was lodged in the Black Knight's greaves, narrowly escaping a vicious back hand from a black shield. A deep, inhuman roar issued out from the headless knights chest as it charged after its prey.

A third bolt of light struck it square in the chest, halting it in its tracks. The knight saw his opening. Gripping the sword with both hands he plunged it deep into the black knight's breast, a cloud of ash billowing out its back as it was impaled. The knight made to pull it out when his opponent's free hand came up and grasped the blade, holding it in place.

The knight's hands released the hilt as he made to backpedal away from his wounded enemy. But he'd been too slow. He saw from the corner of his eye the black knight's shield coming up. He felt it connect with the side of his skull, his eyes popping as an indescribable pressure passed through his head. The world went dark in an instant.

And then there was nothing.

Lll

The knight opened his eyes and sprung to his feet.

No time for armor. He kicked off the ground, practically throwing himself into the corner where he kept his supplies. He pulled his bastard sword from the pile and threw it over his shoulder before tearing up the stairs, running as fast as he could back towards the sorcerer and the Black Knight.

The cold stones beneath his bare hollowed feet that usually bothered him so were nothing now. Anticipation consumed his very being. Anticipation for battle, and deep down, anticipation for heroics. He could be the hero now, now the he had his sword. He would save his new friend, and vanquish the villain, and everything would be alright again.

He could see it all now. The Black Knight's sword was freakishly long, but the bastard sword would nonetheless give him the advantage in reach. And there was no way the Black Knight could defend all the tears it now had in its armor, so as long as he could stay mobile and go for the weak points he'd come out on top.

One mistake though, and that would be it. He had to be perfect. Flawless. His hands tightened their grip on the hilt.

The knight hung a sharp left and rushed up the stairs to the balcony, tossing away the scabbard and brandishing his blade one handed. He confidently strode out, ready to give his battle-cry and charge.

Before him sat the sorcerer, back against the wall. A few feet in front of him were a pile of ashes, a black sword and a black shield lying on the ground on either side of it.

"Oh…" said the knight, as he lowered his sword.

The sorcerer, who'd been studying something clutched in his hand, looked up at the knight as he spoke. He opened his hand, and the knight saw a stream of ashes pour out from between his fingers. The sorcerer spoke.

"So you _are_ an Undead, then."

The knight said nothing. He set his sword down and walked over to where his cloak lay, picking it up and draping it around his shoulders. His feet hurt all of the sudden, cold seeping in to bite at his bones.

He went and stood in front of the sorcerer. The sorcerer, after a few seconds, raised up his head to look at his impromptu savior. The knight saw jaundiced, bloodshot eyes sitting deep in nearly skeletal face, cheekbones practically tearing through flaky, decayed skin. His nose had almost completely whittled away. His thin, lipless mouth was set into a tight, unreadable expression. This man had been hollowed for a long, long time.

The knight reached out his hand.


End file.
